


Semi-permanent Ink

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Green Room (2015)
Genre: Anxiety, Getting Together, M/M, PTSD, some lawyer things that I only half understand, some vague medical stuff, this is by me for me but I'll share it anyway, welcome to I am the target audience for this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27481918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Pat doesn't know how to be a person after surviving the night, but he tries his best to navigate it as best he can with the help of a friend he doesn't want and a relationship he doesn't know if he can sustain.
Relationships: Pat/Tad





	Semi-permanent Ink

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking of writing this for nearly five years, and 2020 is the year of selfish writing projects so it finally happened.

His first visitor isn't really who he wanted to see right after surgery, but to be fair she has the shortest commute.

Amber's taken the recliner by the window and turned it towards the wall. She's fucking with the tubing of her IV, kinking the shit out of it like she'd rather have something else between her fingers. A cigarette, maybe, or maybe something a little greener.

"'Bout time you woke up," she drawls. She's staring at his reflection in the window, kinking and unkinking that damn tube.

"I don't think they'll like it when they see what you're doing to that," he says dryly. He knows she doesn't give a fuck. The way she twists harder feels like she wishes the tubing was his neck. "Were you watching me sleep?"

"I was watchin' the window," she counters, staring down his reflection. Which is as good as a  _ yes _ , fuck. Very creepy and strangely a little comforting, though it really shouldn't be. Her loyalty to him, and his to her, died at the same time as Darcy.

He wipes his eyes with his right hand. His left isn't responding at all right now. The doctors, they tried explaining something about nerves and numbness, but after the adrenaline drained out of him he'd gotten weepy as fuck. Fucking embarrassing. It's not like it's  _ gone _ . It just hurts… well it did before the surgery. If he wasn't looking at it directly he'd swear they lopped it off.

His chest hurts too, but the pain relievers won't touch it.

"I ate your pudding."

"What?"

"Nurse came in to check on you while you were sleeping." She uses her unbandaged leg to kick the wall until she's face to face with Pat. "I told 'em you would want it when you woke up, and then I ate it."

He chuffs. "What if I did want it?"

She shrugs, "I was still hungry. Fucker told me to pace myself. I've been pacing myself. It's not like I did cartwheels down the hallway. I used that piece of shit," she thumbs at a wheelchair sitting empty over by the little en suite bathroom door.

"Well I  _ am  _ hungry," he whines.

She dead-eyes him. "Then call the damn nurse, stupid. You got a button right there."

He fumbles with the little controller attached to his bed, jamming his thumb into the center of the button. There's a charming bing from the hallway, and shortly after there's a nurse with a soft smile and a cool cloth to wipe across his sweaty face.

"Are you feeling any pain? The nerve blocker should start wearing off fully this evening."

"Not really." He keeps his chest ache to himself. He points at Amber. "She stole my pudding."

"It was going to waste," she snaps. "All he's doing is sleeping."

"I'm recovering from  _ surgery _ ," he huffs, and remembers they have an audience, and flushes. "Um, so, yeah."

"I'll bring you something," she chuckles, passing a fond look over them both. She thinks they're  _ friends _ or something. Fuck, he does not want this hospital thinking Amber is his friend, girl prefix or otherwise. He needs to kick her out of his room before she does something heinous.

"I looked at your chart." Jesus, like  _ that _ . He wishes he felt surprised.

"That's an invasion of privacy," he mumbles. He’s so fucking  _ tired _ he can’t even pretend to be angry. All he's done is sleep, but it keeps trying to drag him back under.

"Pretty impressive," she says blandly. Bland, deadpan, Amber's a one tone sort of woman. She's a blank white wall. "Sixty stitches. Got some of those dissolvable ones inside too."

"Not surprising," he says, "considering some of your friends tried to cut off my hand."

Her eyes harden. “I don’t claim any of those fuckers.” She spits, which, um,  _ this is a hospital _ ? "My friends are dead. All two of 'em. You saw what happened when they tried to leave."

He holds up the last three fingers of his right hand. "You aren't special here."

He tries to stare her down, but she doesn't blink, and he's forced to look away. Pat endures the uncomfortable silence by pretending to rest, and continues to feign sleep to block the humiliation of needing someone to open a pudding cup for him. He mumbles a quick thank you and tucks in to avoid any further questions.

"Fuck," Amber groans, and Pat looks over to find her pudding cup that she didn't deserve has more or less exploded all over the front of her gown. "What."

He sputters into laughter, dropping his spoon somewhere on his hospital bed and spewing the remnant from his last bite onto the tray.

"Oh fuck  _ off _ , Pat." She drops the pudding cup into a nearby waste bin, put off by its assault. He can't stop laughing. "It isn't even that  _ funny _ ."

It isn't, not her reaction, but Tiger's always was, and God bless if he didn't have that happen every time they swiped a pack when the dollars were just a bit too short on the road. He always squeezed them too hard, always too eager to get to his prize.

Somewhere in the middle ugly laughing turns into ugly crying. And fuck, he doesn't want Amber here. He wants Tiger or Reece or Sam. Especially Sam. Especially all of them. Amber’s just that person that helped him not end up dead.

He doesn’t know how to thank her. He doesn’t know if he should. He’s having a hard enough time with basic things like breathing and not crying like a giant baby. His nose is running, shit. He hates this.

"You expecting me to go?"

"No," he croaks. "I don't wanna be alone."

Even if it is her. She’s pretty much all he’s got out here.

"So I'm just supposed to stare at you?"

God, fuck her. She's the poorest Tiger substitute there is. He was simple, fuck that sounds bad; he was uncomplicated, what you see is what you get, but also so chill. He said Misfits and he meant it. And somehow he always knew how to maneuver around Pat's shit. Kept him from bleeding out first thing out of anybody, without freaking the fuck out. Probably saved his life.

Everything's just so fucked.

"I-" he flips her off, "fuck, can you shut the door?" He doesn't need a parade of nurses streaming in here to tell him he's grieving. He figured that out all on his own, thanks.

He watches her shuffle across the room, using her IV stand as support. She gives the hallway a once-over and shuts the door. Her hand hovers over the lock, but she shakes it out and leaves it alone.

There's this little cabinet on the side of the dresser, interrupting the illusion this is a totally normal room. Not as much as the hospital bed, IVs, gowns, and his bulky as fuck arm brace, but still. She works her fingers past the safety hinge and tugs a clean gown out, and then she just strips right there without warning. She has to do some gymnastics to get her messy one off around her IV, and she leaves it hanging off the bag hook for the time being.

"No fair." He sniffles. "Why'd they let you have underwear?"

"Cuz I just had a bullet in my leg," she says. She pulls off her saline bag long enough to thread it through the arm hole and returns it to the hook. "They've been done with me for a couple hours." She eyes him critically, and finishes slipping on the clean gown. "Doesn't do anything for you, does it."

It wasn't a question. "I don't feel," he huffs, breath hitching, but he's gotten himself more or less under control. Tears won't let up, but he can live with it. He clears his throat. "I don't feel like sharing right now, thanks."

She shrugs. She's been putting up a tough front, but her legs shake all the way back to the recliner. When she sits it's done heavily; he'd swear she passed out, but her eyes are open, just barely half lidded.

"Better get over yourself fast. They're gonna make us talk to a shrink."

"I," he sighs, and wipes at his face with the edge of his sheet, "fuck, I know."

"Fuck them," she says softly. "I didn't spend the whole night trying to stay alive only to give up now."

"Yeah." Pat wipes up his mess of a face. His eyes sting, but the pressure in his head and chest isn't as suffocating. "Yeah, fuck. I didn't shave my head for nothing."

\---

His second visitor is Tad.

(That's a lie, his second visitor is the on site psychiatrist, who he promises up and down he's not feeling suicidal, just  _ sad, and fuck, can he just have that _ ? Can he maybe just feel sad and that be okay? Can he have maybe a fucking day or two of crying over pudding cups and shitty TV commercials before they start sounding the alarm?

The answer is yes, but it feels good to yell. It feels good to express something ugly.)

Tad’s presence in the doorway of his hospital room feels more like an afterthought. The back of his mohawk’s drooping, and Pat swallows around a very Reece-like comment about needing more jizz for his hair.

“Uh, Daniel never showed,” he mumbles, “and I got a call - guess I’m his emergency contact...”

“What?”

“Nobody’s telling me anything,” he says, “but I found your name.” He gestures to the hall, where some board or something must have his info scrawled on it for the nursing staff. “I know he’s…” Tad gulps, “but, no details. Said it's an ongoing investigation.”

“If you know…” Pat trails off, “then why are you here?”

“Said I knew the band, uh, to the nurses.” Again, he gestures to some unknown place in the hall. “That I knew they were doing a show. I looked and, Jesus -” he fucks up his mohawk even more “- the news reports are a shitshow. Half of them keep calling you  _ Paul _ , and a third of those said you were dead -”

“Hey.”

“I was just trying to make up for my fuck up, and then I fucked it up  _ worse _ -”

“Hey!” Tad startles, but he stops spiraling. “I figured out my desert island band.”

Tad stares at him for a good minute; Pat wasn’t planning on ever having this conversation, and he definitely wasn’t planning on having it when he’s still sans everything but his shitty hospital gown. Tad tugs the door shut behind him and approaches slowly, like Pat’ll leap up and throttle him any second now.

“Can I sit, or…?”

“Go for it.” Pat watches him drag a wooden chair closer and sit on it backwards; gives him something to grip. “I’m the only survivor. Me and,” he chokes up, only briefly, but he’s gotten good at swallowing past lumps in his throat, “there’s this girl, Amber. I guess she was friends with your cousin and his girlfriend. We worked together. She’s sort of a fuck but she knows her way around a box cutter.”

Tad boggles at him, “you, so the rest of…”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.” He rests his forehead on the back of the chair. He mutters, “stupid,” under his breath, tapping his forehead against it a few times in a gentle self-punishment. When he can bear to meet Pat’s eyes again his own are red rimmed and a little watery. “It’s my fault. You wouldn’t have been there. You’d probably be halfway  _ home _ .”

“You told us they were alt-right, or whatever.”

“Unaffiliated, but,” he shakes his head.

“I don’t know everything,” Pat says quietly, “but I walked in after his girlfriend -”

“Emily.”

“Sure, after she was already dead. Amber was there, said some guy, Werm or some shit, dumbass name,” he grumbles, “but, uh, I guess they got wind of their plan to leave. Whole place went berserk, trying to clean up after themselves. Daniel tried to help us, but they got him too.”

Tad hangs his head, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "It's okay if you hate me. I kind of hate me right now."

"It's a copout to hate you," he hates a lot of things these days, red hot and searing, but it's so exhausting. And Tad is, well he’s  _ Tad _ . He might be irritating, but he’s a hard guy to hate. He had the fucking decency to tell Pat his friends used his face as a canvas, and to try to unfuck his fuck up, twice, even though it went so sideways the second time. “You didn’t make us go.”

“I didn’t give you much of a choice, losing your gig like that.”

"We would have made it back eventually. Siphoned our way across the country." He shrugs his good shoulder. The nurse was right, the blocker's starting to wear off, and a dull ache is making itself known. He throws his head against his pillow once, twice, and he settles. He looks to Tad, and his open, genuine concern. "You almost came with us."

See also: you almost died too. Tad's brow goes on a little troubling journey until it settles on disbelief. "I didn't know, I mean I  _ knew _ , obviously, that it was fucked, but not  _ that  _ fucked."

"Drugs," he whispers, "and attack dogs and guns. Probably more. Probably  _ worse  _ shit than I even saw. Skinheads as far as the eye can see, all getting fucked up and fucked out.” He laughs. “Oh god, we were so fucking cocky. We covered the Dead Kennedys. They were fucking pissed."

“No,” Tad gasps, grinning, “you didn’t.”

“Oh yeah,” Pat laughs. “ _ That  _ one.”

"Incredible. Takes some balls, or being really stupid.” He shakes his head fondly. “It’s like I’m getting an exclusive interview," Tad jokes. His face softens, it’s always doing that, looking fond in a way he probably hasn’t earned after so little contact. "You said you have an answer for me."

"Y-yeah," he fumbles with the edge of his blankets. "Ain't Rights." Tad laughs. "I mean it! Fuck off."

"I'm not, okay I'm laughing but," he shakes his head, "it's a good answer. Unique. Maybe a bit narcissistic."

"Just make sure you spell it right," Pat demands, only partially serious. "The venue didn't."

"Papers either."

"Fuck, I can't win!" He play-shouts. Tad, he loses it, and Pat gets swept up in the moment. He wipes tears of  _ laughter _ from his eyes. It feels good. He takes a deep breath, about starts laughing again when Tad snorts, and finally gets some fucking air. He sighs, "fuck."

"Man," Tad sighs. "So why'd you pick it?"

"Well," he gets quiet, mumbly, and Tad has to lean in a bit, "so it's like, you didn't say it but I thought the point was a band that makes you, you know,  _ feel  _ something. I don't just hear our music. It's like I'm living it all over again. I can feel it. I can see it, see them. And it's," he wipes at his eyes but it's too late, they're already past watery, "it's like they're here, right? So," he croaks, sniffs twice, "yeah. Fuck, I'm sorry." He presses his hand over his eyes.

"Nothing to be sorry about." Tad's not sounding too hot either. "Look, uh, if this is crossing a line or whatever just deck me, deal?"

And then there's a hand on his shoulder, coaxing him to sit up properly. "My arm's," fucked, he almost says, but he doesn't want to acknowledge it just yet, "still he-he-"

"It's okay," he whispers, and he's so fucking gentle. Tiger gentle. Never in a million years wants to hurt anybody gentle. He guides Pat's arm to his own lap and then leaves it alone; the rest of him is cradled, and he's too fucking relieved to finally cry against someone's shoulder to care about barely knowing the guy.

\---

Someone touches his shoulder while he's sleeping, and he'll never admit this to anybody ever, but he about fucking pisses himself. It’s just a fucking nurse, because of course it is. Who else would it be? She soothes his shoulder while he relearns how to breathe normally.

"Sorry, Pat," she says, the nice one, the one who introduced herself with a soft voice and softer assurances that she'll come running if he calls. "I had to wake you. Visiting hours ended about twenty minutes ago."

Pat turns to the recliner, and Tad, who's curled up around one of Pat's numerous pillows with a scratchy, stiff blanket twisted up in his legs. His mohawk's gone to shit pressed up against the top cushion of the chair.

"Does he have to go?" Pat whispers urgently. "I, I don't know anybody else out here, and my mom couldn't get a flight until fuck o' clock tonight -"

"Do you want him to go?" He shakes his head. "That's all I needed, okay? Just your permission. And if that changes tell us, especially if you want him out of the room for medical information."

"Okay."

"Try to get some sleep." She checks the tubing of his IV, and notes the volume. "Is sensation coming back in your arm?"

"It hurts," he says, surprised. He hadn't really noticed, but now that he did, "fuck, it really hurts."

"I'll order you something a little stronger," she says, and after a quick visual check of his hand (and its huge fucking brace) and the other bandages she leaves the room, and shuts the door on her way out, plunging them both into near darkness.

Okay, so it's twilight, and there are street lamps, but there's a whole mess of shadows around the room, and the light from the hall is dim, and-

"Hey," Tad calls out, still half asleep, "am I kicked out?"

"No," Pat's voice warbles; he resists the urge to call the nurse, "no, I said it's cool."

"You doing okay?"

"Arm hurts," he grunts, which is true. Partially true. Ten percent true.

Tad stumbles closer, still wiping away sleep. "You look pretty freaked."

He doesn't say it meanly, but Pat still looks away, shame crawling up his neck and settling hot on his cheeks.

"Don't like the dark?"

"I'm not some little kid!" he snaps, voice cracking too much to hold any real bite.

"I could ask the nurse for," he trails off, obviously for Pat's benefit. Pat shakes his head. "Okay, well," he wanders away from the bed, inspecting the room, the TV fixed to the high corner by the bathroom, and then he flips on the bathroom light. It's harsh, too yellow to be anything else, but after he shuts the door most of the way it banishes some of the shadows.

"It helps a little," Pat admits to the bedsheets, knowing Tad will hear too. Tad's still roaming, hands coasting over surfaces until he returns to Pat's bedside and flips on the overhead light above his head. He sort of assumed it would be bright, but it casts a soft blue glow around the whole room. It might fuck with his sleep, but what isn't these days? He’ll give up an hour or two of sleep if it means he’s going to stop panicking. “Thanks, it’s,” he pauses, “thanks.”

"Plenty of people are afraid of the dark," Tad explains, "kids  _ and  _ adults. And most of them haven't been hunted by a pack of skinheads."

"Most of them?"

"I'm sure there's a little overlap," he says plainly. He drags the wooden chair closer, this time sitting on it properly. "Um, were you going back to sleep?"

"Not likely," he sighs. "Nurse is bringing me something for my arm."

"Cool," he tries out a smile, and ends up with a grimace, "uh, so I was thinking of getting something from the vending machine. Snack, maybe a coffee. You want something?"

"I'd fuck up a granola bar," Pat says. "Thanks."

"So, you're good?" He asks, already hanging with the door. Pat nods. "Awesome, be right back." Tad gives him a two finger salute and he's gone to find some overpriced food.

Pat comes to the mortifying realization that Tad  _ heard  _ him freak out earlier, and that the little check before he left wasn't about his arm. He wants to scream, he wants screaming to feel more justified. He wants to stop feeling like he's made of fucking porcelain.

He wants to accept that maybe Tad isn’t just doing this out of extreme guilt and is a genuinely decent person.

He wants to ask, needs to, but he can’t, because he doesn’t want to risk scaring off the only sort of friend he has on this side of the country.

Tad returns with Pat’s requested granola bar (he couldn’t have known he favors the ones with peanut butter, and anyway, it’s not like it’s a unique take on the snack) and a bonus, a ginger ale.

“Out of beer?”

Tad snorts. “Can’t think of a faster way to get kicked out than giving you alcohol right before some prescription strength painkillers, but if you come up with one let me know. I like to stay ahead of things.”

“My mom gets in tomorrow. I can always ask her.” A very cool, very sexy segue into an awesome and fun topic. Very good job Pat. Idiot. "She's um, she's just reception or whatever. Administration. But it's at a hospital, so she has an in."

“Cool," Tad says, like it's even close. “Will she be here before you get discharged?”

“No, but it’s fine. Flights weren’t cooperating, and there’s no reason to stick around once they clear me.”

“Gotta feel pretty good.”

“It’s kind of terrifying.”

Well, he didn’t mean to say that out loud, but Tad doesn’t hear properly or just lets him have this and moves onto the next terrifying thing. “You are definitely going to need some shit before then. I don’t think hospital chic is really hot right now, but what do I know?”

“I could really go for some pants,” Pat admits. “And a shower. Fuck, there’s no way I don’t reek.”

“That’s going to be an interesting experience.” He taps the air just above Pat’s brace. His shit was, in scientific terms, very much fucked up, and the brace is keeping him from tearing things up by trying to do overcomplicated things, like move his fingers. There’s an encyclopedia full of things he’s not looking forward to adapting to with one hand.

He doesn’t get a chance to complain before there’s a little pill cup and some water placed on his tray, and a few more follow up questions about pain levels and long term management of said levels until things stop looking so fresh and raw.

Pat watches Tad as much as the doctor; he’s taking in the information with vague interest, nodding at all the right places while Pat feels like a goldfish gaping up from the mouth of his bowl. He knows fuck all about pain killer classes and why you shouldn’t rely too heavily on one over the other. His arm hurts, but the longer he waits the more the super-strength ibuprofen starts to kick in, and he’s just so fucking tired. By the time the doctor leaves his eyes are barely open.

“Hey, Tad?” He forces his eyes to open, and boom, there he is, being all attentive and shit… on the opposite side of the bed. Fuck, did he fall asleep? “Y’know what I could really go for?”

“Sleep?”

“Sweatpants,” Pat sighs. “And a flannel? Yeah. What the fuck ever will fit over this,” he thinks he lifts his arm, but maybe he just looks at it. “I’m not tryin’ to impress anyone out here.”

“I think you’ve probably earned the right.”

“And I want my hair to not be so fucked up,” Pat whines. “It’s bad enough it’s  _ gone _ .”

“I was wondering about that,” Tad says to himself. “I got a little travel set of trimmers, to, you know, keep my sides short. I can make you look less like someone dropped a weed wacker on your head. I’ll bring it with me tomorrow.”

“Are you just being nice,” he yawns, “cuz you feel guilty?”

Something goes on with Tad’s face, but Pat misses the middle chunk on account of his eyes closing longer than he intends. He’s smiling by the time Pat gets his eyelids to cooperate again, a little sad smile, like Pat’s missing a punchline. He stands up, and touches the top of Pat’s head, thumb brushing across some of the stubbly hairs Amber left behind. He shivers, but the contact is rather pleasant.

“You should get some sleep, Pat.”

So he does.

\---

When he wakes Tad is gone, and so is his IV. He’s disappointed by the first and very confused by the second, because he doesn’t remember anyone removing a needle from his arm and slapping a bandaid on in its place.

The ache is back, with a bonus little twinge when he lifts his arm off the bed. A quick call to the nurse tells him three things. His discharge is on schedule, he’s being given a smaller dose for the road because it would be really disappointing if he passed out walking or something and got hit by a bus, and Tad was getting donuts.

The nurse didn’t tell him that, but she’s still in the room when Tad strides in, hair properly gelled and wearing a fresh change of clothes, with a bag from a donut place in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. She waves to Tad as she leaves, and he returns it with a nod.

“Still getting out today?”

Pat nods. “At ten.”

“Cool, I got some breakfast,” he holds up the bag, “and I found my clippers.” (“I wanna shower so fucking bad.”) “Totally, but you should let me do your hair quick.”

Tad makes a sound argument about how bathrooms are more equipped to handle hair cutting, but Pat feels drained just sitting up without the bed against his back, and he really wants to fuck up one of those donuts before he showers, because he will get whatever shit is on them all over his gown. No matter what they’re going to have to clean all the sheets after he’s gone, even if they don’t get it covered in hair. Plus he’s not really on board with his uncovered ass being Right There while Tad does his work.

He eats a powdered monstrosity of fried heaven while Tad runs his hands over his scalp to feel for the too long bits and shear them off with his dinky travel trimmers. It puts him in a weird, floaty headspace, kind of like he’s two beers into the night instead of being hopped up on painkillers, fried dough, and head-touching ASMR.

And then the best is behind him, because he is equally longing for and dreading this shower, but Tad’s a fucking saint for letting Pat pretend he’s still mildly independent. He makes no move to help Pat stand or old-man shuffle his way to the bathroom. He just picks up the shopping bag and drops it on to the closed toilet, and he sprawls in the recliner to let Pat do his dirty work.

It’s the least effective, absolute waste of time shower he’s ever taken, and even though the hospital offered him some of those fancy arm bags he just keeps his arm stuck outside the curtain and lets water run over him for a full half hour. At some point he rubs the bar of soap under his pits and over his scalp and just calls it good once the suds stop running.

The pants are not an issue. Pat’s done the one hand dance, frantically brushing his teeth while pulling on clothes to get out the door just a tiny bit faster, and fuck if they aren’t the most comfortable things he’s worn pretty much ever. They cost a whopping eight dollars and he almost cries once they’re on properly. And they fit alright, and Tad was listening when Pat complained about how the kind that have ankle elastic drive him crazy.

And then there’s the shirt, a classic red flannel, and he just has no exit strategy. Pat drapes it over his brace and sort of wills it to cooperate, and then he opens the bathroom door and throws it at Tad, letting it flutter to the floor into an unsatisfying heap.

“I can’t put on my fucking shirt.”

“No problem.” Tad scoops it up and twists it a couple ways until he determines which one is the left arm. “You’re gonna want the undershirt. Got it pretty big so it’ll fit over the power fist.”

Pat chuffs, “there was no way I was getting an undershirt on without help.”

So Tad helps. It’s all very mechanical, Pat offering up his arms and Tad easing fabric over the brace until Pat’s pale ass torso is properly covered. Sometimes shitty, cheap flannel doesn’t do it for him, but the shirt is soft and warm against the cool northwest winds. The theoretical winds, at least. He’s been shutting out the outside world as much as possible to try and keep himself sane.

“I can call a cab,” Pat insists, but Tad has his beat up four door at the hospital, and Pat is severely lacking the cash to pay for said cab. “I’ll pay you back for gas,” he insists. “And the clothes. Seriously, it’s making me feel fucking weird.”

“Okay,” Tad nods, hands up in surrender. “Fair enough.”

“I guess,” he bites his lip, but he’s started this stupid not-really-an-argument with his whiny bullshit about not needing the help he absolutely desperately needs. He might as well finish it. “I just don’t see why you’re still in Portland.”

Tad blinks. “I mean, I do still have to sort Daniel’s shit out. I’m not  _ just  _ here for you.”

“O-oh,” he feels like he got a fucking gut punch. “Sorry, I -” Tad shakes his head - “fuck. I can’t. I fucking  _ forgot _ , stupid -”

“It’s fine, just,” Tad sighs. “Let’s get you signed out. Then you can get me out of your hair.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles. Tad is standoffish at the reception counter while Pat accepts a prescription and signs his life away on the last threads of his mom’s insurance before it inevitably gives up on him in about three months. And he doesn’t say anything when Pat accidentally on purpose bumps into him, but by the time they’re on the sidewalk leading to overnight parking he’s cooled to tired amicability.

“I can go grab the car if you wanna hang out here.”

“Thanks.” He reaches out and grabs Tad’s arm as he turns away. “Um, for the clothes too, and for making me look like I didn’t make out with a lawnmower, and, fuck. Being alone would have really sucked. It’s just a  _ lot _ , you know? Shit really got fucked.”

“Yeah,” Tad smirks, and gives his hand a squeeze. “You’re welcome. Been good to have something to, you know, focus on. Something that wasn’t this whole thing.”

“Yeah.” Pat drops his hand. “So, um,” he points to a bench, “I’ll be over there.”

“Be right back.”

Pat watches Tad walk off towards the far lot, and then he claims the middle of the bench for himself. He’s been upright for about an hour. Time to call it and start over tomorrow.

“Finally let you out?”

He snaps his head to the right, and watches Amber light up a cigarette and tap the ashes into the bushes. “I am positive they don’t like that.”

“Fuck them,” she mutters, taking a drag. “Not like I’m theirs to claim.”

“Have you been released?”

She taps the ashes again, and lets it hang between two fingers. “Checked myself out first thing this morning."

“Oh.”

“Wasn’t a big deal. Just a bullet and a bite. Antibiotics and some stitches.” She kicks at his leg until he moves over, and she claims the set to his right. “The fuck did you get those clothes?”

“Friend got ‘em,” he says. It’s close enough to the truth, and Amber’s interest is minimal.

“Fuck, I want a flannel,” she moans. “I used to wear that shit all the time.”

“Change in taste?”

“You get called a lesbian enough times and you’d do it too. Easier that way.”

Pat purses his lips. “People called you a lesbian?”

She stares daggers into him. “What do you  _ think  _ they called me, Pat.”

“Right,” he mutters. “I uh, I like flannel too.”

“Uh huh.” God, she makes him feel so fucking stupid. Like he’s  _ actually  _ making conversation about his fucking shirt.

“I meant -”

“You know, we should sue.” (“What?”) “Somebody. The venue. Darcy’s estate or some shit. You want those medical bills following you around forever?” Pat shakes his head. “Maybe we add a little for like, pain and suffering. That fucking expensive therapy I’m definitely not lying about.”

“Yeah,” Pat chuckles. “Um, I probably am going to look into that fucking expensive therapy, though.”

“I’m not stopping you,” Amber takes another long drag, and stamps out her cigarette against the bench. “I'll hammer out details. Find a lawyer that won't fuck us too hard. I'm coming for his ass." She huffs, holds out a hand, and he shakes it, a bit dazed. "It's been real shitty. Wouldn't do this again."

“Wait.” She hasn’t actually gotten up, but he could feel her slipping away to the background. “I don’t have my phone, I guess you probably don’t have yours. Do you have an email, or something?”

She stares at him, making him feel more and more like an idiot each passing second. “Do I have an email.”

“We’re the only ones that know what happened,” Pat says, pleading. “No one’s going to get that, out there. No one’s going to look at a fucking Sharpie and lose their shit because somehow that  _ worked _ .”

“Fine.” She pulls things out of her pockets until she finds a pen and a wadded up napkin. She rips off the corner and writes not only an email, but also a number on the wrinkled surface. “You better tell that Rick Silva fuckhead he’s a fucking genius.”

“And if we’re gonna sue the shit out of them we should probably work together. Stay on the same page.”

“We’re  _ gonna  _ sue the shit out of them,” she declares. “And when we own the whole place we’ll bulldoze it flat.”

\---

Midday is peak airport traffic time and Pat is just not having it today. He and Tad stick to the little standing space outside the exit doors and shoot the shit about things that aren't skinheads, funerals, or Pat's very stylish sling that's digging into the back of his neck.

“So when I see your mom is it going to be this,” he makes a little explosion with his hands, “like, oh it’s definitely her?”

“Nah,” Pat shakes his head. “I’m pretty much a carbon copy of my dad. I’ll have to point her out for you.”

“Her flight is on time,” Tad says offhandedly while scrolling through his phone. He shoves it in his back pocket and crosses his arms. “Should be soon.”

“Right.”

“Do you need to sit down or something?”

Tad puts his hand against Pat’s back, and Pat leans into it, using it as an anchor while he focuses on remembering to breathe. It’s stupid, but he’s so fucking scared his mom is going to be pissed at him. Or disappointed. He can’t add that to everything else already making him want to crawl under a rock and die.

And then he sees her a few doors down, dragging that dorky floral print carry-on suitcase behind her, and it’s every time she finally comes to get him after leaving him at daycare. He’s halfway across the space separating them by the time she sees him, and she abandons her bag to get to him.

“Mom,” he jumps back when she tries to bundle him up, “mom, watch the brace. My wrist is real fucked up.”

“Easy, come here,” she comes at him slower, and he drops his forehead onto her shoulder, making this little dome out of his curved torso to keep his arm from getting smushed. She's mumbling things against the side of his head, little blessings and thank yous. She laughs once, or maybe she sobs. But when he stands up straight her eyes are only a little wet. She cups his cheek. “Pat, what did you do to your hair?”

“You should see the other guy,” he jokes. God, that would be a sight, his mom meeting Amber. “I’ll tell you, but like, not here? I don’t wanna make a scene in the fucking airport.”

“That language,” she chides. “Who raised you?” She drags him back in, and he goes willingly. Her manicured nails scratch over his back lightly, making him shiver. “If you feel like you need to move back home you're more than welcome. I won't have you in a state while you work up the courage to ask.”

“Thanks,” he breathes, and hugs her as tight as he can with one arm. Then he wiggles free, because even though he’d rather stay there forever his back is getting a twinge. “Thank you. I haven’t, shit’s been happening so fast. I haven’t really had time to think.”

It’s been a full day of non-stop thinking about his wrist, how it hurts and what it’ll be like when he’s able to even use it again, and the other times feel like a fever dream. There’s a white hot amalgamation of stress about home; the apartment, all their shit, how he’s going to do anything useful with his useless fucking arm.

(And his desert island band, and Tad’s fucking smile when he told him. How his touch has been so grounding, and how he’s starting to crave it when it’s absent.)

Right, Tad’s here, and he’s not menacing in the slightest but his appearance is deceiving, and he’s lurking around behind him somewhere. And in the process of looking for him he learns his mom’s suitcase has vanished. So that’s good, real great cherry on top of the shit sundae. Best case scenario someone thinks she left a bomb right outside the lobby of the busiest airport in Oregon.

But then he finds Tad, and by his side is the suitcase. He jerks his head, a little ‘I got you’, and approval for him and his mom finish up their moment. “Um, that’s Tad.” Her eyebrows raise, and he shoots down her look with one of his own. “He’s in the music scene out here, mom,  _ stop _ ,” he hisses. “He’s like, the closest thing I have to a friend out here. He helped me out before you could get in.”

“And now you’re going to subject him to this?” (“To what?”) “Honey, you don’t think I came out here alone, do you?”

“Oh shit.” He looks over her shoulder, but no one in the crowd looks familiar. “All of ‘em?”

It’s a really stupid question; his mom doesn’t tease him, but he could do without the sympathetic back rub. “They had to go to baggage claim. I told them a thousand times to just use a carry-on.”

“How long do they think they’re staying?”

The answer is very, apparently. There was never a real chance they’d somehow miss Pat and his mom with them standing right by the exit, but he sure as hell would love it if they didn’t notice him just yet. Sam’s parents, Reece’s dad, Tiger’s aunt; all of them have a huge rolling suitcase to themselves. Do they think they’re stuffing them full of the shit from the van? The van still works.

Shit, the van. He sure as fuck can’t drive.

Sam’s parents are the ones to notice them first. He’ll never understand how these two unformed, uninteresting blobs of clay stuffed into middle class church clothes raised a girl like Sam. Reece’s dad still oozes the same quiet intimidation that kept Pat from ever going over to his house in high school. And Tiger’s aunt still has that extreme cat lady vibe. You have to wonder what kind of family names their kid Tiger, at least until you meet one of them. It’s like a family trait; thank fuck it skipped Tiger. The leopard print everything his aunt is wearing is tame compared to the overrun nightmare of a house Tiger lived in growing up, at least until his aunt was granted custody.

They’re going to tear him apart.

\---

It’s Tad who awkwardly diffuses the tension with his calm voice and abrasive attire. He apologizes for not having enough room in his car, but offers it up for whoever wants. Pat and his mom are the only ones to accept.

He doesn’t mean to isolate Tad in the front, but he desperately needs to lean against his mom and let her baby him. Unlike the others she doesn’t actually need to be here. She didn’t need to put in for time off to coddle her adult son.

He’s so glad she did, though.

Tad brings them to a cheap motel near the airport per Pat’s mom’s instructions. When they get out he shakes her hand, making such a good impression Pat almost wishes he was introducing them under different circumstances. But maybe he’s already maxed out his brownie points for keeping Pat afloat until now.

“I have my cousin’s shit to figure out, but if you need a ride I can stop back over afterwards.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” his mom says.

“There’s this diner about a half mile down the street,” he explains. “Used to drive down here a bunch growing up. Turned into a tradition. I don’t know what kind of standards the rest of your group has, but it’s warm and fast, so,” he shrugs. “It’s good for breakfast. Hard to fuck that up.”

“Thanks,” Pat waves without even properly raising his arm, so just super awkward all around. He braces himself, because Tad stutters forward for a second like there’s a hug in Pat’s future. But then it doesn’t come, and he realizes he didn’t expect a hug, he wanted one. And he doesn’t know what to do with this information except stuff it in a bag and ignore it forever.

“No problem.” He smirks.

Fuck.

Pat’s mom starts heading for the front office with her suitcase trailing behind her. He goes to follow, but feigns having lost something, giving his pockets a few pats. He’s not going to find his fucking dignity in there, but his mom doesn’t need to know. “Gimme a sec.”

She doesn’t even look back. God, he’s been  _ seen _ , and he sort of hates it. He just needs to scratch this itch; get one last fragile moment out of his system before he puts some real effort into getting himself pulled together.

Tad’s door is open, and he’s leaning against it while he waits for Pat, and fuck, is there anyone that can’t see right to his core?

“Forget something?”

Jesus Christ. “Well nevermind then.” Tad laughs. “Fuck off. I’m trying to be appreciative.”

“Oh?”

God, he doesn’t know how people just do what they want without getting paralyzed. “I just,” he rubs his hand over his face, “I lost three friends.” Tad nods somberly, eyes trained to the ground. “It’s helped, um, having one around.”

“Yeah.” Tad chuckles. “Yeah, that’s true, and I appreciate your… appreciating, but I really do have to go figure out Daniel’s shit.”

Pat exhales in a frustrated puff. “I’m just gonna -” he bites back his comment, there’s no normal human way to say this, so he just sort of half initiates a terrible hug and lets Tad fill in the gaps. “I’m no good at this,” he says into Tad’s shoulder, quietly, in the hopes he won’t actually hear. During the hug he feels content, itch scratched without too much embarrassment. But Tad pulls away and drops into the driver’s seat, and Pat is dismayed because that didn’t actually help at all.

“I know you don’t have your phone back yet,” Tad says, “but until then your mom has my number.”

“Yeah,” Pat says, feeling dazed. “Right, okay.”

“You look exhausted.” Exhausted doesn't begin to cover it, but Pat nods. Tad starts his car and belts up; he offers Pat a fist, and he sort of bumps it but also maybe just paws at him. “See you around.”

“See you.” He watches Tad go, and then turns to find his mom. Hopefully holding a room key so he can hide until he stops self-sabotaging.

\---

He intends to take a short nap, but the second he lays on the closest of the two full sized beds he’s out cold for the next four hours. It's a good sleep, deep too, and getting woken up in the middle of a cycle sends him into a head fog.

"Sorry to wake you, sweetheart," his mom winces. He blinks at her, he can't get himself to do more. "The rest of our little troupe is demanding we keep a dinner reservation."

"At the diner?" Swanky place.

His mom laughs. "Absolutely not."

She doesn't say anything when Pat pockets her phone as they leave the motel. He still feels her questions pinging off his skull the entire ride to the restaurant, chipping away at the thin veneer of his self-control. They take a cab, because his mom doesn't want to put Tad out again so soon. Pat wholeheartedly disagrees, but only in his head. He wouldn't mind, Pat's sure. Especially after an afternoon full of abrupt end of life planning.

Pat isn't exactly dressed for the place. His mom didn't say anything at the motel, but reservations mean nice, and nice means the rest of the group wasn't counting on him showing up in the only clothes he currently has. He's dreading the looks, and once the looks don't sway him to change the blatant comments. Because really, what's he supposed to do? Buy new clothes just to eat dinner? Break into the police station? Because that's a lost cause. Nothing he has on this side of the country qualifies as nice.

You'd think having an immobilizing brace and sling on would win some people over. Definitely not Mr and Mrs pearl clutcher. Mr Reece's dad? Absolutely not. The only one that won’t be leering at him is Tiger's aunt, and let's face it, you don't wear full leopard business skirt suits without brushing off society's judgement on the reg.

“Pat, you’re looking rather tired.” Ms L (Tiger’s aunt, stands for Leopard - okay not really but that would be sick) comments offhandedly. (She has that way about her, the whole offhand slight thing is her preferred attack method.)

“He looks like he sat in a dryer for a week,” Reece’s dad barks.

“You really couldn’t find anything else to wear?”

“He looks like he got in a fight.”

“I did!” he shouts, “I did! With twenty plus Neo-Nazi fucks!” He wants his hair back  _ now  _ so he can tear it out. “They tried to cut off my hand! They tried to do  _ worse _ ! I’ve earned the privilege to not have to impress anyone!”

(And he’ll storm off proudly. He’ll text Tad, who’ll be tired, obviously, but also very much over these white picket fucks and their high and mighty attitude.)

And then it just… doesn’t happen the way he imagined. Gone is the tense, curt greetings from the airport. He gets more handshakes/hugs/back pats than there are people in the party. No snide comments about his slept in outfit. They ask about the  _ tour _ , the parts that happened before Oregon.

The waitress doesn't ask, but when both he and Tiger's aunt order the same pasta dish with chicken, only his comes precut. And she's a water glass sniper. It's not oppressive, but every time he's at a third of a glass left she's there giving him a refill without forcing him into meaningless small talk. She's going to get a good tip.

He has all this righteous fury simmering below the surface, but no one does anything that lets him let it out. So when it happens it's definitely not justified, and he feels bad instantaneously, because Sam's mom just wanted to know about her dead daughter's hobbies and he couldn't even give her that.

"I always asked," she says wistfully, "but you know Sam. So independent."

"Sure."

"I imagine you got to see more than us," she says wetly. "Hard to believe otherwise. I’m sure you have stories. Any favorites coming to mind?"

"Fuck, I don't know!" He snaps, loudly, fuck, loud enough that the restaurant goes quiet. "Shit," he whispers. "Excuse me, uh," he gets up quickly, chair screeching against the hardwood, "sorry."

"Pat," his mom reaches for him, but he backs away.

"Just give me five minutes," he mumbles, knowing he'll need more. "Sorry."

This restaurant has these swanky stalls with real wood doors and ambient music; he's waiting for some towel guy to pop out of nowhere but he's the only one there. Pat slips into the one farthest from the door and locks it. He has the urge to sit on the floor, but it’s still a bathroom, and no matter how nice it looks people are still nasty.

He texts Tad instead of calls, because he can live with himself after yelling at Sam's mom, but Tad's another story.

_ I think I forgot how to be a person. -P _

The phone starts ringing immediately. Maybe it’s okay if Tad’s the one to initiate a call. Then he’s the one signing up for this potential disaster. He accepts it after he’s pulled the scattered pieces of his willpower into a neat little pile of feux-control.

“Hey.”

“I dunno,” Tad muses, “sounds like a person to me.”

Pat chuffs. “I might’ve put myself in time out. I snapped at Sam’s mom.” He leans his head against the wall, temple resting against uneven wood paneling. It’s pretty uncomfortable. “Am I an asshole now?”

See also the unasked question: was I one before?

“Nah,” Tad brushes him off. “You’re on pain medication, or it’s wearing off and you need more pain medication. Or you’re, you know, depressed. Which is totally valid.”

“B and C,” Pat says, and quieter, “mostly C.”

“Okay.”

No judgement, no unwanted offers of how to make it all magically go the fuck away. Just, okay. He's not okay, and that's okay. All the anger just leaks out of him, leaving behind an empty pit in his chest. He bites back the stinging in his eyes as long as he can, a whole four fucking seconds, before everything spills over. He croaks, “I miss them.”

“I know,” Tad says softly, suddenly sounding so tired. “I mean, Daniel and I weren’t the closest, but I miss him.”

“They were my best f-fucking friends.” (“Right, that’s what I’m saying.”) He sobs, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with crying.” Pat sputters into laughter. “Laughing’s good too. Lot of good options out there.”

“God,” he sniffs. “I’m a fucking mess.”

“Yeah, but it would probably be kind of fucked up if you weren’t. I can stay on the call,” Tad assures him. “I’m just filling out some paperwork shit.”

“I don’t need Reece’s dad breaking down the bathroom door," isn't what he wanted to say, he wanted to say yes, but telling the truth is probably better. "I should get back to staring at my food and not saying anything. You know, normal human interactions."

"You might want to try an apology, if you haven't. Just a thought, if you’re hoping to continue not being an asshole."

"I did." He tucks the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can wipe up his face with his sleeve. "I felt like shit pretty much right away."

"And you said you forgot how to be a person."

"You're getting the highlights," Pat says. "I should just write sorry on my forehead."

"It's a bold look."

"Yeah," he sighs, "that's me." He emerges from the stall and, after confirming he's still alone, walks over to the sinks. Two words; shit show. "I gotta go. I have that iconic cried-in-the-bathroom look I gotta take care of."

"Yeah, sounds good. See you."

"Y-yeah," he stammers. "See you." He hangs up. "Very fucking smooth."

He doesn't know about his absence, but his return to the table is horribly awkward. Or, it is for about ten seconds, but after he gets back to finishing his food his mom and friends' parents go back to talking around him. He deflects every opportunity to join in with a nod or a grunt around a conveniently timed bite. It isn't comfortable, but it isn't uncomfortable, it just is.

They get dessert, which is fine, and he gets to take his next dose, which is  _ great _ . Or at least it will be soon. And Tad texts him, which is a welcome distraction from the charming topic of visitations.

And it's a picture of a car, which confuses him until the second text of  _ send help I have two cars now?? _ comes through, followed by  _ You wouldn't happen to know anybody looking for a car in Oregon do you? _

It's a joke, and he does laugh under his breath, but his response is  _ I might _ .

\---

“Tell me about Amber,” Tad says off-handedly. Pat tears his eyes away from the stick shift; if he’s ever been in a manual car before he can’t remember, but Tad drives Daniel’s (now his) car like it’s his job.

What can he say about Amber? He would actually like an answer because he has no clue. Nazi? Good shot? Better with box cutters? Madonna and Slayer?

Tad probably just wanted to know what she looks like.

He doesn’t end up saying anything until they get there.

“That’s her,” he points out Amber uselessly, seeing as there is exactly one car and one person in the abandoned lot Tad suggested they use for the exchange. She’s smoking absentmindedly as she circles the car with… disdain? Indifference? Irritation?

“She’s kind of a lot, and um, at best an ex-Nazi.”

“We’ll avoid the politics talks.” He shifts down and parks between two ultra faded lines a few spots away. They don’t get out. Tad offers up a weak thread of optimism. “Daniel was leaving with Emily. I don’t know what his motivations were, but, you never know, maybe Amber was going to follow.” He hums thoughtfully. “No one’s asking you to hang onto this girl.”

“She’s just,” he shrugs, “no one else saw it. No one else  _ gets _ it.”

“I can respect that.”

He's trying to. The conversations in his head aren't looking too promising.

Tad gets out first, but Pat is the one to call her over. "Amber, uh, Tad," he jerks a thumb behind him, "car owner." Christ, Christ on a cracker. What the fuck is wrong with him? "Uh…"

"You're driving Daniel's car," she tosses at Tad, saving Pat from himself.

"Yup. Perk of being his only next of kin," Tad says mirthlessly.

"He hardly mentioned you."

Tad nods. "He was pretty private."

This, it's this that's wrong with him. He's crossing two very different streams letting these two interact. Between an imagined knifing (on Amber's part) and a holier than thou rant (from Tad) Pat misses the meat of their conversation. They've skipped ahead to amicable business transaction island and left him in the awkward half-pleasantries sea, scrambling to paddle ashore and feel solid ground again.

"I only have this," she pulls a wrinkled wad of small bills from her coat pocket. “Consider it a down payment.”

"Oh, I mean, if you didn't want the car I was probably going to scrap it. It has one feature; it runs. Most of the time.”

"I'm not exactly picky," Amber scoffs. She makes a motion to throw the money at Tad if he doesn't accept. "I'll make Pat take it if you won't."

"I don't want to be part of this."

"You're literally the only reason this is happening," Amber points out, sending heat crawling up Pat’s cheeks.

"It's only worth a few hundred anyway," Tad says, accepting the money, and steering things away from Pat's shame. "Some now, some later?" Amber holds out a hand, and they shake. "Cool. All the papers and shit are still at my apartment. We can figure out a meetup later next week."

It doesn’t feel strange learning Tad is still put together enough to plan a whole week in advance and remember things like paperwork and titles and shit. He didn't see what they saw, feel what they felt, bleed like they bled. But Amber was shot in the leg, bit on the other, and carried the team when it was just the two of them. Why does she get to act so cool? Why is he the only one on the verge of tears twenty-four seven?

“Pat?” Tad says, probably not for the first time. He scrubs at his face, surprised to find it dry. “Amber’s leaving, so uh, yeah. Transaction complete.”

“Okay?”

“I just mean -”

“Yeah, shit, uh,” Pat gives his head a good shake, “fuck, I’m sorry. I’m fine, just, you know, not actually fine. At all. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Some good old fashioned swallowing my feelings,” he nods to himself, “oh, and I guess throwing myself at a task. Multiple tasks. Helps that I live out here. Have responsibilities. That sort of thing.”

And Pat has five separate adults doing that for him, is that it? Well, that is it, actually. His biggest responsibility trends towards the white or wheat question at the diner.

“They’re doing all the funeral talk shit today,” he says quietly. “They asked if I had thoughts, but,” he shakes his head.

(“Don’t make me choose. One funeral, three, I don’t care, but don’t make me choose which of my friend’s funerals I can’t miss.”

He spent half the night working out just the right gut-puncher, only for it to fizzle on his tongue. Reece in the morning, Tiger in the afternoon, and Sam the next morning. All carefully crafted around each other without needing his whiny bullshit to make it happen.

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth that never really goes away.)

“I know you have your own shit,” he gets it, he does; he doesn’t want Tad thinking he’s ignoring everything not in his immediate orbit, “but if you have like, an hour or whatever we could go get food.” The more he keeps bumbling along the tighter Tad’s jaw sets, but he can’t get himself to just  _ stop _ . “Or, like, whatever. You were right, the diner’s pretty good. Good enough. Like, hot and fast sort of good, not the uh, are you alright?”

“You gotta stop,” Tad chokes out.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “fuck, Tad, if it’s a bad time -”

“You gotta stop  _ pretending _ , Pat.” He scrubs at his face, not crying, but bone deep tired. Tired of Pat’s rambly shit. Or maybe tired of being his driver when he could call a damn cab. Or maybe just tired of him, full stop. Anything’s possible. “I don’t know if you’re doing this intentionally, or if this is some fucked up  _ coping  _ mechanism or some shit,” he trails off somewhere, staring at the passenger side of his car. “Or maybe you’re lonely,” he mumbles. “I get that.” And then all his focus is back to Pat, making him squirm from the intensity. “But you should be angry with me. My stupid,” he shakes his head, “I didn’t have a handle on my shit, and my fucking bumbling got your friends killed.”

“You didn-”

“I  _ did _ ,” he interrupts, hitting Pat like a slap. “Big part? Small part? What the fuck ever, I still  _ played  _ one. And having you act like I didn’t do anything wrong is fucking me up, because I can’t figure out if you’re trying to make me feel like shit on purpose. I hope not,” Tad mumbles. He starts to pace, and comes to a stop by the hood of his car. He taps his fist against it gently. Pat’s desperate to see his expression, but he’s frozen down to his bones. “But you gotta stop lying to yourself, Pat. It isn’t healthy.”

"I'm… I don't…" he doesn't know. He doesn't know why he feels like his ribs are crumbling into dust. "No."

Tad turns back around then, eyes hard, but he softens, and takes pity on him and his pitiful fucking devistation. "I'll take you back to your motel."

-

They say nothing. He can't even conjure up a fake rebuttal in his head. It's like static, panic driven static. Tad doesn't look at him the whole way; Pat can't tear his eyes off him.

He fucking hates him. He hates that he can't get Tad to understand how much he likes him.

Pat doesn't want to leave things like this but despite fighting his way through an entire alt-right army he's a fucking coward. Tad parks right outside his motel room, eyes glued to the windshield, and Pat garbles his way through a thank you as he fumbles with the door handle.

Tad never responds. But! But. But he doesn't drive off? Pat can't parse the meaning until after he's knocked on the door and his mom is ushering his sorry ass inside. Tad's leaving then, he hears the roar of the engine kicking up into gear. Pat's chest constricts another few inches.

"Pat? Pat," she says, repeating herself more times than he hears. "Pat, talk to me, what's wrong?"

Even though she just said, even though - he just. "Mom, can I talk to you? Like, really talk?"

She's quiet, dead silent, as she coaxes him to sit down on his bed. "I'm here to listen, Pat, as long as you need."

So he tells her. Seeing Tiger. Seeing Sam. Not seeing Reece but just knowing, deep down. His arm. Amber's leg. Darcy, fucking Darcy. It's not everything, not even close, but scratching the surface lifts so much pressure off his lungs he sobs brokenly, openly, and she bundles him up under her arm so she can pet his stubbly hair.

"Thank you for telling me," she says, like he's done this amazing favor for her, talking about shooting a man in the back. "What happened to the four of you was horrible. You didn't deserve any of it." She's sniffling, but he's got her beat ten ways to Sunday. Grief, relief, all of the above. He ducks in a little bit tighter, and she kisses the top of his head. "I'm so lucky to still have you."

"It doesn't f-feel lucky," he squeaks out. Hot shame flushes his cheeks.

"You have the hardest part," she admits. "This Amber girl, is she a friend?"

"She was one of them," and if he says it in the past tense enough times maybe it'll come true. "But they killed her friend. Friends. Tad's cousin was one of 'em."

"A member?"

"A friend. Her friend. Yeah, uh, he was, but he and his girlfriend were bailing hard, crashing at Tad’s before they went who knows where."

"What about Tad?"

He swallows around a lump. "I think he feels guilty. He's," Pat sighs, and sits up properly. "He's like, okay so he's the one that set up our gig there. But it's like, fuck mom, it's like  _ nothing _ compared to everything else. But we fought about it," he whispers, "and I don't know what to do."

"Are you angry with him?"

"I'm angry with everything," he admits reluctantly, head bowed to avoid her immediate reaction. Even now it's there, simmering, just waiting to latch onto something and boil over. She touches his arm at his elbow, and rubs her hand up and down his tricep.

"This is only a suggestion," she says cautiously, "but Pat, sweetheart, try not to lose these people. I can listen, and I will whenever you need me to, but those two know things I can never understand.”

“Tad wasn’t there, exactly.”

“But he means something to you.” He can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t bother trying. "I won't force the issue. You do what feels right for you."

So, nothing then. He can manage; a real master of indecision.

“The rest of our group was planning to get some food soon. We'd love to have you," he tenses up, doesn't mean to, but she feels it in his arm, and chuckles a little. "That's what I expected."

"I don't really want to talk about them," he says. "Not like, so soon."

"I know, it's alright. They know they came on a little strong during dinner." She tucks him into another one armed hug. He's less prepared this time, but equally as reluctant to ever leave it again. "I still have you, but for them you're all they've got."

"Someday," he promises, equally meaning it and just hoping it'll get the questions to stop. "Fuck, I feel like I'm the only one that isn't handling this well."

"There's a lot of grief you aren't seeing," she explains softly, hand trailing through his too-short hair. "When we all started getting phone calls," she stops herself, choking up exactly once before she's composed again. "They're trying to be strong for you."

"They don't have to do that. Fuck, I think I'd feel better not being the only one having a breakdown in public."

"I'll be sure to tell them," she says. He huffs out a big, heavy sigh. It sounds wetter than he expected. "If you need me to stay here, I can."

"No," he worms free, "no, I'm okay. I'm probably just gonna take a nap."

Because the easiest way to follow through and not accost Tad right this second is to just be unconscious for a few hours.

Pat trundles around the motel until his mom finally leaves (fidgeting with the pull cord for the blinds, the remote, anything not bolted to the floor) and the second he's alone he mentally throws himself bodily into his bed, when in reality he carefully lowers himself into the nest of pillows and blankets he demanded from the front desk.

Pat dozes, drifting half asleep while he rides the crest of his latest dose of pain meds. He would've sworn he didn't fall asleep, but the evidence is pretty damning when he nearly pisses himself from being woken up by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

_ Tad _ , he thinks before he's really capable of doing so. He fumbles for his phone and drops it into his lap, swiping to the messages and frowning down at a set of pictures from Amber. Two pictures. Shitty little stock photos of thin chain link for necklaces. The explanation comes shortly after.

_ Which is less shit. _ Not exactly a question, but he doesn't exactly have an answer. But he can manage an opinion.

_ Uh, silver. _ Stainless steel, silver, what the fuck ever. She'll get the point.  _ Yellow gold is cheesy as fuck _ .

_ Agreed. _

So, she really didn't need his opinion. Oh, she didn't  _ need  _ his opinion.  _ What's it for? _

_ Putting that shitty bullet round my neck. _

That's… Amber. That's Amber to a T.  _ Heavy. _

_ I won, bitch. Bullet don't have shit on me. _

_ I've been thinking about tats. _ Not a lot, not coherently, but saying it in a text feels like a declaration.  _ Don't know what yet. _

Except he does, at least the subject matter. He just doesn't know the finer details, like an artist or style or if his fucked up arm will be able to endure the needle long enough to get anything substantial. But he wants something aside from an armful of scars.

_ If you get any of those fucked up portraits I'll never speak to you again. Creepy as fuck. _

_ Fuck, is that all it takes? _ He chuckles to himself, knowing he doesn't plan to take the easy way out. _ Deal. _

-

He retreats within himself completely. He doesn't mean to, but an endless barrage of insurance photos during his next follow up for a dressing change sap him entirely. People talk around him like static. At some point there's food in his field of vision that he's expected to eat. Pat throws in the towel at four thirty in the afternoon and sleeps until ten the next morning.

And now it's too late. He has a flight in four hours, a parade of funerals in two days to look forward to, and no time to rebuild a bridge. He's packed up like his duffel from the van, the vehicle and its remaining contents in storage until someone feels brave enough to make a call. Someone gives him a cup of coffee and some overly powdered donuts, and he gets the sugar all over his flannel and undershirt. The literal icing on his shit cake.

It's at the airport when the cherry drops. There’s a hot rod car in the corner of the carpark that's so unmistakably Tad's that Pat's chest feels like it's inflating from the swell of hope. And then there's the mohawk, raised to the sky like a beacon, calling him over like a siren's call. He hates that stupid thing so much. Why the hell can a guy like Tad pull it off?

He finds himself moving, suddenly bagless, suddenly fucking shy as he scurries over. Shit, there's still powdered sugar on his shirt. Great look, very classy.

"I thought we should try leaving things a bit more amicably."

"H-how'd you know when we were leaving?" Serendipity? Did he sit out here all night? Make a series of illicit calls with back alley cash payments? Did Amber tell him?

"Your mom texted me." Fuck. This could not be more uncool. "Said you have your own number now."

"We shared one before," he says. "It was Sam's technically, um, but it's mine now, I guess. Transferred and everything. You should still have it."

"Yeah," Tad says, and Pat lets go of the breath he's been holding. "Look, I'm not aiming for some sort of lifelong feud. I just wanted you to be honest with yourself -" he grabs Tad by the collar and drags him down a few inches - "woah, okay. Uh, I'd prefer it if you didn't hit me with your gauntlet -"

And he kisses him, right there in the fucking Portland, Oregon airport carpark. He hasn't done his due diligence, he never considered the risk/rewards of doing this in public in this state. But after he pulls away Tad dives in for another, and he figures the guy wouldn't go for it if there was any imminent danger. He’s also very,  _ very  _ grateful this is going as well as it did in his head.

“Tad,” Pat mumbles against his mouth, and as much as he doesn’t want to he pulls away. "You're right, I do sort of hate you," he says, hand still curled in the fabric of Tad's jacket. "Fuck, this could not be more inconsistent."

"Not really."

"And I'm fucking  _ leaving _ in a couple hours." ("Yep.") "I'm sorry, Jesus Christ. I'm a fucking asshole."

"Little bit," Tad says breezily. "A tiny one. Cute one." Cute? "Things are starting to make sense."

"Well, glad to help." Pat's just going to crawl into a hole and die if that's cool. He settles with extracting his hand from the death grip he has on Tad's collar. "Okay, hate’s a strong word. I don’t hate you. I guess I’m pissed at you.” Tad nods, looking a little heartbroken, but also relieved? Just a whole mess of inconsistencies, and Pat doesn’t know how to make sense of them, so he rambles, hoping something will stick. “I tried not blaming you at all, because everything keeps making me so fucking angry or sad, or angry  _ and  _ sad, and I didn't want you to be a part of that." He pauses to collect himself, and to reassure himself just a little. Tad's softening expression helps. "But fuck, man, you're on the whole other end trying to take all the blame. You fucked up," Pat shrugs, agitated. "Who the fuck  _ didn't _ . You didn't pull the trigger, or load the gun, or buy the fucking bullets, er, cartridges. Whatever. At best you dropped a coupon for a discount gun on the ground and loudly shouted 'I sure hope no one shitty uses this for something bad' and that's  _ it. _ "

"That's a pretty cute metaphor." Pat's not so sure about this cute business. Maybe well thought out or articulate, but cute? He doesn't like his face feeling this hot. "Makes sense, I mean, I get what you're trying to say."

"Do you believe me?"

"I want to," Tad sighs. "This all really sucks. I wish we were just," he slaps his leg, grunting with frustration. "I wish this was just, like, us hanging out after the show you were supposed to do. Simpler."

He wants to say something like, "I don't know if this would have happened then," but he's not going to lie to Tad anymore if he can help it. This doesn’t need a silver lining. Some shit is just bad all the way though, and that’s fine. "Yeah, that would be ideal, but this is what we got."

Tad cups his cheek, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. He kisses him again, slow and sweet, without any real urgency. He doesn't have a lot of flowery thoughts on kissing Tad, it's just nice. Real nice. He could see himself missing his flight because he didn't want to stop nice. Pat tips his head down and their foreheads touch, alighting his cheeks with a cherry red blush.

"I should figure out check in and shit," he says reluctantly. "Security, you know."

"I do." Pat drops forward to hide his cheeks against Tad's shoulder, and Tad's arms wrap around his back. "If you ever have a good reason to come out here again you'll have a place to stay."

"Thanks." He sneaks a deep inhale of Tad's deodorant and aftershave and whatever else he uses to smell good. He can name exactly zero of the scents but they're nice, not too strong or pungent. Very Tad-like. "How about a bad reason? Amber's talking to lawyers and they're gonna want me here eventually so we can sue the ever loving shit out of Darcy’s estate."

"I think I could provide some distractions." He holds Pat out for one last, quick kiss and releases him. "We'll keep in touch."

\---

For a whole month

he

  
  
  


does nothing

but 

  
  
  


drift.

\---

Pat pulls his laptop into his lap and smacks the space bar a few times to wake it up. He uses the fleeting reflectiveness to try and fix up his hair a little before it’s replaced with his sign-in screen. It’s somewhere between purposeful bedhead and actual bedhead, which is better than grease pot. Slightly better. He’s all about those little victories these days.

He opens up Skype and hovers his pointer over Tad’s name, hesitates, takes a deep breath, and finally initiates a video call. Anxiety bundles itself into tight little coils in his chest the longer the call goes unanswered.

But then there’s Tad’s face, chill and smirking and just a little bemused.

“I am so fucking sorry,” Pat grimaces.

And Tad just laughs at him. “What a greeting. I don’t work nights anymore, it’s cool.”

“I meant for ghosting so hard,” Pat groans. “Fuck, I didn’t even think about work.”

“It’s really fine,” Tad assures him. “Thought I’d let you initiate. Figured you needed some space.”

“I didn’t mean for it to go so long,” he explains, feeling the need for Tad to understand just how much he wanted to contact him, but he just couldn’t. “After the funerals I just kind of… stopped.”

(Amber’s going to be disappointed with him. All day long he’d been practicing the delivery of his cryptic praise to Rick Silva for his contribution, and the second he saw him he burst into tears.)

“Turned into a recluse?”

“Sort of. I guess whenever someone put food in front of me I ate it. And I had doctor’s check-ups and physical therapy and shit. I dunno, man, I don’t remember much of the last month. It’s a blur.”

Tad nods, pensive. “Any highlights?”

“I watched a lot of sitcoms?” Tad sputters out a laugh. Pat’s chest does a little loop-the-loop. “I don’t see why that’s so funny.”

“You don’t?”

“Fuck you,” Pat snaps without any venom. “Some of it’s shit but some of it was okay? I think I watched all of Gilmore Girls?”

“Solid writing. Can’t throw a stone in this glass house.”

“I could have done worse.” He shrugs. “It’s nice to, I don't know, watch something get solved. Sitcom problems are never like real problems.” Tad scrubs at his face, because Pat has ruined this call after only five minutes. But when he drops his hand he’s smiling, so warm and just a little sad. “Sorry. Got a little heavy. You can make fun of me for watching all of Full House if you want.”

“I’ll think about it,” Tad chuffs. “Well, you look,” he bites his lip, “okay? Your hair’s grown back, mostly.”

“Wow,” he laughs. “Glad I could impress you so thoroughly.”

“Got all dressed up,” he nods at Pat’s flannel, the one Tad got him, the one Tad probably remembers he got him, and he wants to crawl under his bed forever.

“I even shaved on Monday. You don’t get this baby smooth face without some effort.” He rubs his hand across his stubbly chin for sarcastic emphasis.

“Four days ago?”

“It’s an accomplishment,” Pat insists. “It really is. This week I,” he founders, fusses with the decorative little knots on his mom’s afghan. “I made myself actually do shit this week.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Monday I shaved,” he says, and it doesn’t matter than he hasn’t shaved since, because his facial hair takes a fucking age to grow into anything substantial. “Tuesday I started forcing myself to at least stand in the shower daily.”

“I hope with water running,” Tad teases.

“Yes!” Pat shrieks. Fuck, why did he want to do a video call? It’s not like Tad wouldn’t have guessed he’s blushing over the phone. No need to give the guy visual fucking confirmation. “And most of the time I use soap, so fuck off.”

“But not Monday?” Pat grumbles in a vague negative. “Hey, that’s good though. What did you do Wednesday?”

“Walked outside. Not like, far.” He never let the house out of his line of sight, but there was no one home to judge him for walking around the rim of the cul-de-sac ten times like some creeper casing the joint. “It felt good, being outside. I don’t know. I guess exercise is supposed to help your mood or whatever.”

“Seems legit.”

"I think I have a vitamin D deficiency."

"Pretty sure the sunlight is good for that too. That's basically two things for Wednesday, really."

"Yeah," Pat smiles briefly. Tad's teasing him, but gently, so much so that Pat doesn't feel like a piece of shit for being genuinely proud of himself. "Thursday I went through a box."

"What's in the box?"

Pat chuckles. "Uh, well, clothes mostly. I didn't really help clear out the apartment," he stutters to a stop, clears his throat, "so there's a shit ton of boxes in my mom's basement. I just sort of," he shrugs, "powered through the first one. It’s mostly shirts. I’m gonna keep most of them for now, I think, but I did get rid of Sam’s pants. They don’t really fit me.” Tad snorts out a laugh. “It’s not a good look.”

“I believe you.” He smirks. "So then there's today."

"Yeah," Pat whispers. He stares Tad down, willing him to just call him out and dispel the tension. Tad doesn't bite.

"Glad you're doing better," Tad says. "How's the wrist?"

"Eh," he holds up his brace. The new one, the one that's less restrictive but still absolutely vital to keeping his shit aligned. He wiggles his fingers, showing off his new skill. "I'm allowed to move it, but it's still weak as hell. Hurts sometimes.” Most of the time, but to varying degrees. The pressure from the brace helps. “The other scars healed alright.”

"That's good to hear." Tad flops back onto something, a pillow? Oh, it's his bed. The one Pat crashed on when they stayed over while Tad was at work. The one that smells like him. "You’re stuck in the brace for another month at least, right?”

“Try two,” or more, or maybe this is just how his left arm operates from now on. “Could take longer to get my strength back. I don’t,” he pauses, looks over at his tragic practice guitar propped up against an armchair, and sighs, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to play anymore. Not like I used to at least.”

“That sucks.”

“I still don't know if I'd want to," he admits. "Not without them. Thinking about it scares the hell out of me."

“I’m sorry. In general and, like, bringing it up. You can tell me to fuck off whenever.”

“It’s alright.” Because he’s not trying to be cruel, or maybe because it’s Tad. The judgement free zone they share is comforting. “Two people know. You and someone else. I started talking to a therapist. It… helps.”

“Thought about it, but shit’s expensive. Didn't have enough drive to shell out that much.”

“I don’t know if it’s for me in the long term." Pat admits. "I'm at least half a person now. I can probably figure out the rest for myself."

"Cool. Very cool. The pitch black cave you’re sitting in fills me with confidence."

"Don't let my dark as hell basement fool you." He turns his laptop around in a little tour of the dark, box cluttered space. "I'm usually upstairs, but my mom works pretty early. I lurk down here when I can't sleep."

"You can't sleep?"

"I usually take something," mild, it's something mild. It's fucking melatonin. That shit comes in a fucking gummy candy form these days. "Haven’t yet, but it’s not like I need to be up for anything.”

“You say that like it’s late.” Which, okay, it’s not the middle of the night. Tad’s just sort of floppy and sleepy, and it’s making Pat feel drowsy. “I’m good, unless you’re fading. We can always postpone. Maybe talk after I’m done with work tomorrow?”

“No, I’m good,” but he does take Tad’s lead and shifts on the couch until he’s lying down properly with his laptop on his chest. “I want to talk, and I still feel kind of shitty for going dark like that.”

“I was sort of pissed about that,” Tad says casually, sinking Pat’s stomach through the couch and into the foundation. “At first,” he clarifies. “But, you know, you didn’t go full on ghost. Got a few texts.”

“Oh no,” Pat whispers. “If I said something shitty, look man, I sincerely don’t remember texting you. I barely remember anything -”

“Saturday after you left,” Tad interrupts, “after the funerals, I’m guessing.” He pauses, and lets his lip quirk up apologetically for a brief second. “You texted me one word, fuck, and you did that thing where you put a space between each letter. Didn’t seem like you were looking for conversation.”

“Yeah, that was,” he shakes his head. It was a lot.

“Right,” he says softly. “I thought you’d appreciate some space. And then a week later you sent me a picture -” (“Oh fuck.”) “- nothing explicit. I think it was an eggplant? An actual, physical eggplant sitting on a countertop.”

“My mom made eggplant parm,” Pat groans.

“Does it mean the same thing when it’s not an emoji?”

Pat drags the afghan up over his face, muffling his whining. “I don’t know what I did to deserve getting dragged like this.”

“If it makes you feel better there’s only one more.” (“I think that makes me feel worse.”) “Well, it’s the most coherent. It's one of those dumb giant emoji things. Whatever they're called. A cat telling me Happy Birthday which," he sucks in a breath, "no, not even close."

Pat peeks out from under the blanket, flushed up to his  _ ears _ . "Is this the part of the call where you tell me you never want to talk to me again?"

"Nah," Tad chuckles. "Timestamps were all super late. You were probably half awake at best. And hey, guess that means you were thinking about me."

He wants to leave his body and phase into the earth.

"Did Amber get this sort of treatment or was I special?"

"No!" He shrieks, very uncool, very deserving of the laughter. "No, um, fuck off! She's just been emailing me about lawyer shit. Updates on my wrist. Shit like that." He undoes the Velcro on his brace and redoes it a bit tighter. "Sometimes I swear to God they want my recovery to go bad so they can wring more money out of Darcy's estate. I bet they fucking came when Amber told them we were using their firm."

"Bet they're gonna want you in person one of these days."

"Yeah, uh," he scratches his head, "sooner rather than later."

Tad laughs, "I see why you called."

"No! I -" he groans, "if it didn't come up organically I wasn't going to ask, man. You don't have to cater to my every fucking whim."

"I don't know if having to see lawyers counts as a whim. And you could use some socialization from the sound of things."

"I haven't been  _ hibernating _ ," Pat insists. Tad just blinks at him, expectant. "Okay, I have been, but it's not like no one tried. Barbeques, drinks, that sort of shit. The superficial, look we're including you in our things sort of shit. But no one knows what the fuck to say to me. It's like," he shrugs a shoulder, "they just don't know what to say. And I don't know what to say back. Or if I do say something it's like, really fucking morbid humor. But they don't get it, or they think I need coddling or some shit." But sometimes he does, he really does, and he's gone a fucking age without any. "So I end up not saying anything at all. And then they're all worried I'm going catatonic when I'm just trying to shield them from my shit." He runs his finger across his trackpad, watching the cursor move around instead of Tad's sympathetic expression. "So it got easier to just stay home."

"Pat -"

"Fuck, I'm not trying to guilt you." ("Pat.") "Really, I can get a motel. It's  _ fine _ . I can probably get the lawyers to pay for it -"

"Pat," Tad half shouts, and Pat's mouth snaps shut. He smiles. "Come to Astoria."

He breathes, "okay."

\---

Pat has the window seat.

He loves and hates it, honestly. Hates the trapped feeling, loves gawking at the cities below, and then the clouds once the cities are too far away. The kid next to him spends half the flight craning his neck to see out the window over Pat's shoulder. Pat spends the other half dozing with his head against the side of the plane.

He'd told Tad not to bother coming inside the airport. He said the crowds don't bother him. That he has a stupidly high tech carry-on he borrowed from his mom and his old beat up backpack he never bothered to toss after high school, so luggage isn't an issue. He told him a lot of stupid lies that all lead to him power walking through the fucking airport to run away from the imminent panic attack.

He finally exhales when he sees the hot rod out front in the mess of a drop off zone. Tad pops out long enough to wave and pop the trunk, and then he slides back into the driver's seat as Pat tugs open the passenger door.

"Flight okay?"

"It was whatever," Pat shrugs, feeling a hazy sort of drowsiness seeping in at the edges. "Had a window seat. Slept some."

"Well, you have a whole two hours to do some more if you need it."

"Maybe," Pat sighs, and scoots down a bit in the seat. "Thanks for driving."

"No problem."

“When you get sick of me you can just dump me at a motel,” Pat insists. Tad snorts, and says nothing.

They settle into a meandering string of easy, comfortable topics. And Tad schools him on the new albums he's missed from last month, giving him the good ol' DJ spiel and a few choice samples from his collection. He watches the road with a lazy sort of attention, and Pat watches the way he smirks when their eyes meet over the center console.

(He didn't get a kiss. He wasn't banking on one, especially not some sappy romance bit in the airport, but the delay is giving rise to some nasty negative thoughts he'd thought he did away with.)

It's just barely after dark when they arrive at Tad's apartment. He offers to take one bag and Pat refuses on principle so Tad can do some smarmy, cute maneuver like take it from Pat and kiss him. Just a thought. It doesn't have to be exactly that or anything. But Tad lets Pat do it himself, much to his dismay.

"Haven't moved anything around," Tad explains. "You can drop your shit wherever."

Pat drops his backpack and carry-on onto the chair across from Tad's couch. "So, do you have to call it a night or -"

Tad kisses him. Actually,  _ finally _ kisses him. Pat would climb him like a fucking tree if he'd let Pat set the pace, but he's a big fucking tease. But it's still good.  _ So  _ good. He grips Tad's jacket, and hands slide to his waist, bringing a slow building heat to his stomach. Fuck, he never wants this to end.

Tad chuffs, disconnecting, hands still roaming across Pat's ribs. "Surprised you made me make the first move." ("What?") "You were staring at my mouth the whole drive."

"Fuck," he whispers. "Don't say it's cute, man. It's fucking embarrassing."

"Nah," Tad kisses him again, just the once, and he does not swoon. (But only because he's making an effort.) "Flattering, maybe borderline creepy. Something between those two."

“Great,” Pat slides his hand down to Tad’s chest and gives him a gentle shove, using the opposite momentum to propel himself across the small room and drop into the center of the couch. “Exactly as planned.”

_ I won’t live to be seventy. _

Pat blinks, stomach sinking; he sees Tiger, and then not. He rubs his eyes until he sees spots, until he stops seeing anything else.

The couch shifts as more weight is added, actual, physical weight, and Pat peeks over at Tad between his fingers. Tad reaches out, decides against it, and drops his closed fist onto his thigh.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t realize it actually bothers you. My bad.”

“What?” He sits back, still shaking off the haze. “Oh, fuck. It’s not that. Just sort of,” he makes a wavy motion with his hand, “went somewhere in my head.” He looks to his right, but nothing’s there except a lumpy old pillow. “I’m fine, I’m just,” he sighs, “I’m out of practice. Haven’t uh, dated or anything in awhile.”

“Yeah, not a lot going on out here either.”

“I’m talking more like late high school.” (“Fuck.”) “I tried out community college but it fucking sucked. Dropped out after a semester and a half. And then the band just sort of took over.”

“Not really any options there?”

“Nah. Sam’s well, not my type,” Tad snorts, “yeah. Besides, she and Reece had this,” he grimaces, “they weren’t like, together, but they fooled around sometimes."

"In your defense, even if you were interested I don't think I'd ever try getting in the way of Reece and well, pretty much anything."

Pat barks out a laugh. "Yeah, who'd want to disrupt their hate fucking."

"Hate fucking," Tad shakes his head fondly. "Real bunch of charmers. Very interesting group.” He gets quiet, pensive. “I really am so fucking sorry, Pat. In general and like, you know. That dead horse I keep beating."

“I don’t hold it against you,” Pat says, equally as soft but sincere, earnest. He  _ needs  _ Tad to believe him this time. He gets a kiss instead of a straight answer. Close enough.

“So you’re good?”

“I saw Tiger,” he admits, and Tad, bless this fucker, looks very much not okay with that but he doesn't run Pat out on a rail. “Well, it’s more like I remembered him. This throwaway shit he said during your interview.”

“I don’t really remember,” Tad admits.

“He said he wasn’t going to live to be seventy,” Pat says. “It’s such a fucking Tiger thing to say, gets the whole room riled up,” he sniffles. “But he-he-”

"Easy," Tad soothes him. Not quite like Tiger, but close, so close. Pat lets himself be placated, settling against Tad's side and digging his chin into his shoulder while blunt nails scratch at his back. He breathes in Tad, and blinks away the tears. Only a few. Totally manageable. Certainly nothing to dwell on when they could be doing something fun, like kissing again. He really wants to kiss Tad again. He takes another, longer breath, getting a good whiff of Tad’s neck. Tad snorts, a quiet breath tickles his ear, but he says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

Pat scoots up until he’s holding himself upright, but not far enough to disconnect. "I promise I'm not really a complete disaster. Half a one, maybe.”

“Half, huh?”

“I’ve earned at least that.”

“Oh, course,” Tad’s whole face crinkles into an endearing smile. “It’s a process.”

“Some fucking process,” Pat sighs. He looks at Tad, looks at his mouth, feeling paralyzed with indecision. Thank fuck Tad sees right though Pat and tugs him closer.

“You’re thinking awful hard there.”

“Thinking about being done with you,” he grumbles. And then he’s kissed; it’s still really good and nice and he is so fucked.

“No need to agonize so much. Doesn’t have to be a thing,” he mumbles right up against Pat’s mouth. “Can be this, can be whatever.”

Whatever he says. Sure, yeah, Pat isn’t overthinking any of this. And he isn’t rearranging the damn room with a few additional personal touches. He shoves this and that aside in his head until he’s feeling more present in the moment. It’s a nice moment. Kissing Tad isn’t earth shattering but they’re laying some solid groundwork. Fuck, Tad’s hand is in his hair. He didn’t know he liked that this much until about four seconds ago.

Tad’s hands are everywhere; his hair, his cheek and neck and shoulder, his back - hold on. Pat pulls away, and hears a soft trill behind his back. “What the fuck.”

Tad chuckles and reaches behind him, dragging a lanky tabby across Pat’s lap and into his own. “I wondered when she’d come to investigate.”

“You got a cat?”

“Sort of,” he scratches behind her ears and she languishes across his lap. He’ll never admit to being jealous of a fucking cat. “I’m in this local foster group. Lot of those,” he nods to the collection of photos, “were fosters. Some were family cats, you know. Little bit of both.”

“We’ve never really had pets. Allergies. My mom,” he’s quick to add. “So you don’t plan to keep her?”

“Depends. She’s mostly here to recover from a surgery. Her tail got caught in something,” he stops her stubby tail flicking long enough to show Pat the stumpy end, “so they had to clean it up. Stitches don’t bother me, so I get these cases a lot.”

“Cool.”

“She might try to share the couch with you if you sleep here.”

If.  _ If  _ he sleeps here. “Okay?”

“Yeah. You’re welcome to anything in the kitchen,” Tad says breezily as he dumps the cat into Pat’s lap. He kisses Pat once, soft and sweet, and he stands. “I’d stay up, do something,”  _ something _ , “but I have a half shift in the morning.”

“Sure,” he yawns, or fakes a yawn. It’s a little bit of both. “No worries. I’m not in any rush to go back home.” Tad gives him a look that sends his gaze to the floor. “The uh, the lawyers. They don’t know how long it’ll take.”

“When’s your return flight?”

“Don’t have one,” he admits, wincing. “But I’ll get a motel -”

“Nah,” Tad brushes him off. “Don’t worry about it now. Motels aren’t going anywhere.”

“Thanks, man,” Pat whispers. He peeks up shyly, just in time to catch Tad’s half-smile before he turns and leaves the room.

\---

It’s a memory, or sometimes it’s nowhere close but the waves of dread are the same. And then sometimes it’s Tad, haggard and bloody like the rest of them, held together with duct tape and a slick, cold panic until Darcy blows his fucking head off -

And Pat sends the fucking cat halfway across the room when he snaps upright, still gulping in air - he can’t get enough, chest feels tight - he forces himself to breathe through the daze until he wakes up fully.

“God damn,” he mutters, rubbing his face a little too aggressively. He shifts up into the corner of the couch and tucks his legs up to his chest. He apologizes to the cat, because he genuinely did find her weight on his legs comforting. She snubs him, wandering towards the kitchen to jump up on one of Tad’s chairs and curl into a ball. He’s lost his couch partner for the night.

Pat leaves the living room to shake off the rest of the dream. He uses the toilet and splashes his face with cold water, blinking until he stops seeing phantom marker all over his face. Doodles, camo, nothing but his two day old stubble and some heinous bags under his eyes.

Normally Pat would call the rest of the night a wash and fire up his laptop. Normally the only other person around is his mom. Normally he doesn’t have the option to ask someone ‘I had a bad dream and I’d like to sleep in the same bed as you, please and thank you, and also can you please not treat me like I’m a fucking toddler afterwards?’. Yeah, he didn’t think so.

It would be better if it was storming, or if Tad lived right next to a train. Literally anything else waking him would be better than Pat looming at the foot of his bed. But there’s nothing to cover Pat’s approach, or the way his breathing sounds like he’s dragging a rake across the sidewalk.

Tad fumbles with a bedside lamp, flooding the room with yellow light.

"Sorry," Pat mumbles, eyes focused on Tad's feet shifting under his blankets. "I didn't mean to wake you." (But he wants it, so maybe he does.)

"But you did," Tad groans and rubs his eyes.

“I’ll go,” Pat says. “I'll let you sleep." ("Pat.") "I'm  _ fine _ -"

"You aren't," Tad sighs, and he scoots to his left to make room. "Just get in."

He wishes the offer felt a lot more sexy and fun and not, well, like he's a fucking child for not being able to sleep alone. Tad switches off the lamp and lies back down, but Pat… Pat just _ can't _ for some reason. Many reasons. (Tad will know, obviously. He has every other time.)

"Hey," Tad coaxes him down and bundles him into his arms, "you're shaking."

"Nightmare," Pat admits, red hot with shame. He scoots lower until his face is pressed against Tad's sternum, listening to the steady lubdubs of his heart.

Except he isn't, because his spectral form goes unnoticed, as does his breathing, which is quieter than he imagined. Plus Tad's a fucking heavy sleeper, so much so that Pat has to shake his arm, and even then he's barely conscious.

"Mph," Tad stretches, squinting up at Pat in the dim light. "Sup?"

"I uh, could I bunk in here?"

"Sure," Tad yawns, and he opens up the right side of the bed for Pat. "Sorry about the couch."

"It's," Pat almost corrects him, almost, but he chickens out, "fine. Thanks."

"Yeah," Tad touches Pat's shoulder, and his arm flops down to the bed. "If it's cool with you," Tad mumbles, "I'mma go back to sleep."

"Yeah, yeah, no problem." He was really gunning for something else, but this feels... okay. Tad's here and real and alive, breathing slow and even, with just a little bit of a whistle. He whispers, "night," because Tad needs his sleep. He signed up for a chill hangout, not Pat's needy bullshit he swore he'd worked through in length for about a hundred bucks an hour. He works through the next part anyway, hoping it’ll soothe him enough to get some more sleep.

("I'm sorry I'm being such a fucking pest," Pat sighs. "And I'll chill out, I mean it, I," he pauses settling back against Tad's chest (Spooning, of course. He gets the feeling Tad would be a good spoon partner.) "I missed you. I missed feeling like I'm connecting with a fucking person."

Tad's quiet for a long time, long enough that Pat suspects he just poured his heart out to a pillow while Tad sleeps on unaware. But then his arm tightens, fingers tangling in Pat's baggy tee shirt as he tugs him closer. Pat feels lips against his clothed shoulder, and then words, "I missed you too."

At least he hopes so.)

\---

He wakes up when Tad's phone shrieks out a shrill, tinny alarm for a good half minute until Tad groans and rolls towards his bedside table. And then he rolls back, bemused but content when he sees Pat in his bed.

"What?"

"Wasn't sure if I dreamed it," Tad says with a shrug. "Couch do you dirty?"

"I'm not a great sleeper," Pat admits. "But it got better when I came in here."

"Glad I could help," he jokes. He scoots closer long enough to plant a sleepy, uncoordinated kiss on the corner of Pat's mouth. "Now, I'd love to lay around but I should get ready."

"Sure." Pat watches Tad roll off the bed and stumble his way to his dresser, and then out the doorway and, presumably, into his bathroom. He sits up, does some half-assed home physical therapy stretches to keep his tendons from getting stiff, and somewhere between the flexor plexor whatever the fuck and contemplating the minimum amount of time he's supposed to wait after Tad leaves before he masterbates when he realizes he hasn't actually heard any getting ready sounds from Tad.

"Oh," oh, well al _ right _ . Now, this could be wishful thinking, and Pat's prepared to supplicate for his privilege to stay here if he follows Tad and this wasn’t a subtle offer to fool around some before his shift, but he has a good fucking feeling for once and he's going to listen.

He finds Tad in the bathroom, leaning against his sink and not even pretending to get ready, with a smug-ass brow raised. “Sup?”

“Fuck you,” Pat laughs with relief. Thank fucking Christ he didn’t waltz in while Tad was taking a shit. He’d have to leave the country. “What if I never followed you, huh? What then?”

“Then I wouldn’t be late for work,” Tad says as he ambles over and puts a hand on Pat’s cheek. “That’s a joke, by the way,” he says, voice dropping an octive, inching ever closer with each word. “I got an hour before I need to leave.”

“O-okay."

"Thought it'd be fun to make you decide something for once." ("Oh  _ fuck _ you," Pat whines.) "I remember your part of the interview, you know. You squirming there, no clue what to say. Overthinking."

"Well, you talk too fucking much," Pat counters, to Tad's amusement. "That a radio thing?"

"Filling the silence," Tad smirks. "No dead air."

"I'll give you dead air." He winces. Really not his best.

"Feels like you meant to say something else. I'll give you another shot if you li-"

Pat kisses him, and keeps kissing him past the shock. Yeah, he can make a move. It's a fucking process, but he can do it. Getting Tad to shut his fucking mouth is just a bonus.

Tad crowds him into the space between the wall and the door, hands everywhere, roaming and seeking and tugging at his clothes. Tad pauses long enough to grunt in question, hand tugging at the hem of his shirt, and Pat leans back long enough to nod.

“Don’t know why you’re wearing long sleeves,” Tad mutters, teasing him, teasing at his shirt, but letting Pat take over once he’s found a new pastime exploring every inch of Pat’s exposed torso. Pat eases the sleeve off his left arm and rushes to get free of the rest.

And Tad stops dead, wide eyes trained on the first of several scars.

“I forgot you haven’t seen it,” Pat says weakly. Tad cradles it like it’ll shatter, hand running across the raised scars and stopping just short of his wrist. It looks alright, still red and angry but healing way better than Pat ever hoped. “It looks worse than it is. I don’t even have to wear the brace overnight anymore.”

Tad slips his arms around Pat’s torso, fingers digging into his bare skin, gripping tight and only relaxing when Pat hugs him back. All the energy’s been sucked out of the room, but he doesn’t hate this, necessarily. He’s down for some coddling. He sort of wishes he’d gotten Tad’s shirt off first, but he settles for sticking his right hand up the back of it and digs his nails into Tad's skin.

He savors it, savors the feel of skin against skin, of lips resting… lips moving, oh. He hits his head against the tiled wall when Tad's teeth graze his neck. Teasing turns to something else, something  _ more _ , and he nudges at Tad’s cheek until he abandons his current target in favor of Pat’s mouth.

The energy is not gone, not in the  _ slightest _ , just different, charged; this,  _ this  _ is what his therapist meant when she told him to do something life affirming, fuck. Tad kisses like a forest fire, hot and searing and everywhere. Pat wants to get at Tad’s shirt, to get them on even ground, but there’s lips on his neck again and a hand slipping down the back of his sleep pants and all he can do is just hang on and follow Tad’s lead.

“You okay?” Tad whispers, husky and smooth right in Pat’s ear. He nods so frantically he feels his neck pop. Tad’s hand slides to Pat’s hip and gives it a squeeze. “This okay, too?”

“Hell yeah, yeah,” Pat assures him. “Fuck, c’mon man. Oh-mmm,” Tad kisses him, and he shoves the front of Pat’s pants and boxers down. He hisses, no longer used to someone else’s hand giving him this sort of attention. He does his damndest to remember to give as much as he gets, and the only reason he’s not going to die from embarrassment is Tad finishes about as fast as he does.

“Okay,” Tad croaks, and he coughs over Pat’s shoulder, “okay,” he laughs, “fuck. Alright, I really need to get ready.” But he leans back and kisses Pat again, slower and subdued and sweet. “Okay,” he hums, hands holding Pat’s cheeks. Pat can’t help himself, he leans forward and kisses Tad, who relents really fucking easily for someone who doesn’t want to be late for work. A lazier, less urgent heat pools in Pat's chest. Later, he thinks. He can't keep being a sex pest when Tad has a life to live.

“I’m gonna rinse,” Tad says, planting a hand on Pat’s chest to keep him from moving. He slips into his shower and starts the water, yelping when he gets blasted with the initial cold.

(A single, split second memory slams into him like a wall. Fuck, not now. Not  _ now _ . He blinks away the burn-in of Tiger's shredded neck but it lingers even after the colors fade.)

It’s an offer, he knows this, he even considers taking it, but he’s sinking into a pit. He holds his breath, willing it away, but the dread, the slick, tar-like waves of grief won’t stop cresting beneath his ribs. Why? Why  _ now _ ? He got to feel good for what, two seconds? Maybe a half minute? He crowds the shower, slipping in as soon as Tad slips out. Fuck, he’s still half dressed. He shoves off his pants and boxers, letting them become a sopping pile on the floor of Tad's bathtub.

“You know, you can come with me if you want,” Tad says from the other room. Pat holds his breath, keeping the tears silent for now. “They really won’t give a shit. Otherwise you can stay here, hang out with the cat and, you know, just chill.”

“Maybe,” he croaks. It’s all he lets slip, and then he clamps his hand over his mouth and lowers himself to the floor.

\---

It’s a quarter after nine when they finally get out the door. They, because Tad waits around for his sorry ass to peek out of the bathroom like a fucking kicked puppy. Tad kisses him even though they don’t have time, and Pat sags against him like he’s lost all his strength.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

And he is, mostly. He’s raw right down to his bones but he fucking handled it without fanfare. No histrionics, no reactionary medication needed; he just bawled his eyes out in the shower like a normal person and moved on with his day.

"Walk's about a mile, maybe less,” Tad explains while locking his door.

"Is it really alright for me to stick around? I can fuck off to your apartment or some park or whatever."

"It's cool. You've been thinking about tattoos anyway, right?" Pat nods. "See? It's a very legit, four hour perusal of the available artist portfolios."

"I still can't believe this place has a tattoo parlor."

"Try four," Tad counters, and Pat mouths 'four' with disbelief. "People will drive hours, hell, there's at least one guy that takes a  _ plane  _ into Portland just to drive up here for an appointment."

"Guess I was never that attached to my artist in Arlington." He adjusts his jean jacket, his borrowed armor. It’s a bit too long, and there’s no way he pulls off the dumb-ass tiger patch carefully stitched (slightly off kilter) on the back, but it’s a comfort all the same. “Does this mean I get to see your portfolio too?”

“Not exactly. There’s some semantics,” Tad explains. “I work  _ for  _ a tattoo parlor. I’m not one of the artists.”

“Why?”

"Well, there's a lot of behind the scenes shit -"

"No, I mean," he huffs, "fuck, man, I've seen your shit. It's solid."

Tad shrugs. "My stuff's fine, but they aren't looking for artists. And it's a better gig than my last job. I uh, technically I set my hours. I can't just fuck off whenever but it's flexible."

"Cool," Pat trails off. He built this little picture in his head of Tad bent over some shithead's arm popping someone's tattoo cherry, probably with something small and boring and inoffensive. But now he's a cashier or a floor manager or whatever the fuck they have him doing, and it bothers him but he doesn't know how to tell Tad without shitting on the new job he likes better than his old one.

"Yeah, and like," Tad waves a hand, "drawing on people is different than paper. I'm nowhere near good enough to do that yet. But sometimes we get these test samples for different practice tools and I get to troubleshoot them. See if they're worth the hype. Lets me dip my toes in without having to do any unpaid garbage."

"So you could still be an artist?"

"Sure, someday. It's a long term goal," he says. "Anyway, the owner's pretty cool. You'll probably get to meet her. She makes this shit look so easy."

Tad stops them on the corner of the next block. "So, uh, full disclosure. They know about you."

"What?" When did Tad have time to tell them they're… dating? Fooling around? Little bit of both?

"Yeah, you're sort of a punk celebrity," he says, and Pat makes a face. "You're still very much in the scene out here, even if you are taking a sabbatical." Oh, ah, so it's not about Pat's hand having gotten familiar with the inside of Tad's pants. That's… cool. It's a fucking relief, honestly. "So if that's not cool with you, I'm sorry, but also feel free to bail. They won't even know."

"It's alright," he says, finding he means it. "I need practice not putting my foot in my mouth."

"That's the spirit."

"Be honest," Pat says mere feet from the door, "it's because you won't shut up about me, right?"

"Might've helped," he says, and he fucking winks. And somehow Pat's the flustered one, so that's cool and good and fine.

Tad opens the door for Pat and gives him a gentle nudge towards a small stack of portfolios on the windowsill. “It’s by appointment only in the mornings, so you can take those wherever.”

“Who you got with you, Tad?” Pat looks up to a woman giving a guy, who is no less than sixty years old, what must be his tenth tattoo. Or maybe he has even more elsewhere. Pat’s not too keen on providing a mental picture for himself.

“Pat, my boss, the owner, Rosie. Rosie, Pat.” She tips her head up and Pat waves awkwardly at the modestly tattooed woman. “He’s the uh, the band member. Y’know, from the Ain’t Rights.”

“No shit,” she says admiringly. “You looking for some new ink?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “Long term, sure. Got some rough ideas.”

“You ever decide on something you come here, you got me? On the house. Fuck those guys.”

“Yeah,” Pat laughs breathlessly. “Shit, thank you. I’m hoping to bedazzle this up some,” he doesn’t think, just slips his jacket off his left arm and gives her a good look at his scars.

“Shit,” she draws it out, impressed. Her client is unimpressed, go figure. “Hell, you can even pick the artist. Except Dietrich,” she jerks her chin at the other guy that Pat honestly hadn’t noticed working at the other chair up front. “Can’t think of any client that won’t throw a fit if he bumps them.”

“I’m sought after,” the man, Dietrich, says gruffly. Feux-gruffly, since he’s about as scrawny as Tad, but even shorter than Pat. “Booked through the rest of the year.”

“So you can avoid all the walk-ins from the bars.”

“Yeah, they are always like this,” Tad stage whispers to Pat, chuckling, giving him another wink to blush over. "I'm surprised you're up here and not at  _ your  _ station," Tad comments to disrupt the banter. “Thought you liked the lighting just right.”

Pat doesn’t miss the shared look between them, and he feels Tad tense to his left. “You’re not going to like it,” Rosie says with sympathy. “Had ourselves a ‘baby’s first’ during this morning’s appointments.”

“Oh boy,” Tad sighs.

“Hey, I did the worst of it,” Dietrich snaps.

“You know the procedure,” Rosie says. “I’ll owe you big.”

“You always do,” Tad says. “Cool, okay. Uh, Pat? You can bring the portfolios wherever. There's some space in the back.”

“Okay,” he breathes. He shrugs back into his jacket and grabs a few of the books, cradling them against his chest as he follows Tad into a little nook towards the back of the shop. He spreads them out across an empty stainless steel counter and turns to watch Tad as he pulls on a pair of gloves and grabs some cleaner. “So that’s a code for pissing their pants, right? Baby’s first?”

“It’s sort of a catch all, but yeah, mostly.” He starts spraying the chair with a thick layer of sanitizer as he talks. “There’s protocol, you know. Can’t have the next person sitting in piss. Not really sanitary.”

“And this is better than your old job,” Pat teases, but he gets it. “I fucking hated food service in high school. I think I’d rather clean up piss too.”

“Believe it or not it’s only like, fifteen percent of the job.” He circles the chair a couple times, giving it a few lazy mists of the sanitizer as he goes. "Half the time I'm on the phone or online ordering shit."

"Doesn't seem so bad."

"Better than food service." He returns the bottle of sanitizer to the cabinet under the counter and peels off the gloves. “You really should check out the portfolios. I think you’ll find a style you like.”

_ I like yours _ , he thinks, but he nods and flips open the first of several books. He gets the vibe this place has a rotation of artists, given the number of portfolios, but it turns out Dietrich just thinks he needs three of the fuckers around to really get the point across. Still, his shit is good, and even if it’s not vibing well with what Pat wants for his arm he is definitely considering putting in a request for a slot once he opens up appointments. 

"You can use the chair if you like," Tad offers, much to Pat's horror. He laughs, "I know, I'm kidding. There's a little break room in the back if you want to use an actual couch."

"Sure, yeah."

"It's just that I have to count a bunch of shit. Inventory. I'm not going to be much fun."

"Yeah, that’s cool. I'll take these," he scoops up some of the portfolios, leaving Dietrich's behind on the counter. He makes a logical guess and walks towards the only door he sees, listening to Tad's heavy footsteps following behind. He drops the portfolios on a tiny circular table in the middle of the room and drops into one of the plastic chairs.

"You can do whatever back here," Tad says. "Should only be a few hours."

"Cool," he says, giving the red and black tile his undivided attention. "Um, if I fall asleep just, um, just don't like, touch me? You can set an alarm or whatever. It's less jarring."

He looks up slowly, face flushing while Tad eyes him critically for a bit, searching, thinking. "Is there a sound I should avoid?"

"Uh, I don't think so. Maybe just use your alarm from this morning. It wasn't horrible."

"Good to know," he says. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

"I cried in the shower," Pat blurts out of fucking nowhere. "I didn't, you didn't do anything," he says quickly. "Sometimes memories just fucking, they just _ appear _ . And I'm okay, I just thought," he sighs, "I just want to be honest with you. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm a fucking mess but I can handle it."

"So, you're really okay?"

"Mostly. I mean, I'm honestly doing pretty good." He scratches his temple, fidgeting endlessly, always just a fucking disaster. "Unless you like, very obviously did something, can you just not acknowledge it?" ("... I guess if that's what you want.") "Yeah, that would be good. I know I'm not really that fun to be around half the time," he jokes. Sort of jokes.

Tad looks at him like he's a fucking idiot, but maybe an idiot he's fond of, which Pat will take because he knows what he's bringing to the table. He kisses Pat once, twice, still leaning in close and stroking his cheek. "I dunno, I think this is pretty fun."

"Yeah," he sighs. "I just don't want you getting blindsighted. I'm damaged goods."

"Aren't we all." He gets one more kiss, and then Tad really, absolutely needs to do some real work, but Pat can come back out and heckle him if he wants.

"You don't have to hide it though," Tad says on his way out. "I mean, I'd like to help if I can."

"You do," so much, so much that Pat thinks his chest might pop, "but we had just," he laughs, "we just got done giving each other hand jobs in your bathroom." Tad snorts. "Yeah, didn't seem really sexy or cool to run crying to you right after. Didn't want to give you whiplash."

"Okay." He says, and turns, pausing mid-stride. "While we're being honest, I sort of knew something was up, but I didn't want to push."

"Thanks," Pat smiles, and Tad finally peels away from the door and leaves the room.

-

  
  


“You really didn’t find anything?”

“Not sure what I’m looking for,” Pat explains. “It’s not a big deal. When I find a style I like I think it’ll like, speak to me or whatever. This isn’t just some skin art. It’s like I’m muralizing it on me, or something.”

“Eloquent,” Tad teases. He elbows the little crosswalk button and leans against the pole. “Well, even if you don’t choose one of the shop’s artists for this one I’m sure Rosie’ll comp you a free tattoo anyway.”

“She doesn’t have to do that.”

“Naw, but I think she likes you, or the idea of you. I might’ve helped that one along.”

“All I did is not die.”

“Sometimes that’s enough.” Tad jerks his head, and the two cross the street in a somewhat uncomfortable silence.

“Sometimes I wish I’d managed to help one of them,” Pat says, “but then I guess I’d be pissed I didn’t help all of them.” (But in reality he keeps this to himself, because he doesn’t want to make things worse.)

“You hungry?” Tad asks, and maybe Pat is the only one feeling awkward. Maybe Tad’s just better at smoothing things over without having to address it head on.

“Yeah. Fuck yeah,” he laughs. “Forgot we didn’t have any breakfast.”

Maybe Pat’s the one making this feel so fucking difficult.

-

This time he doesn’t bother with any bullshit posturing before climbing into Tad’s bed.

“Tomorrow I’ll drive you to Portland,” Tad says. “You got a motel or anything?”

“Lawyers got me set up somewhere.” He yawns. Melatonin’s really kicking his ass tonight. “I know you have work and shit, but if you have a free day or two I’m sure they wouldn’t notice if you crashed with me.”

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea,” Tad says. (“What?”) “I mean, yeah, I do have work, but even if I didn’t I think it’s better if I stay here.”

Pat sits up, because he doesn’t want this feeling to be the thing that drags him under; he doesn’t know what it’ll do to his dreams. His chest feels like it’s caving in, and he rubs his sternum with the heel of his hand. “I don’t…”

“We don’t know what this is yet,” Tad says carefully. “I know you said, I mean obviously Sam wasn’t an option for you, or Reese.” Tad looks at him pointedly, but he’s frozen, mouth agape, an open fucking book. “You never got back around to talking about Tiger.”

“We weren’t together.”

“But there was something,” Tad says. Even though he says it gently it still stings. “If I’m like, your rebound -”

“No!”

“Okay,” Tad placates him, “but I was going to say that’s okay. I’m having a good time,”  _ then why are you shredding it to pieces? _ “I just don’t want anyone getting hurt, you know? We haven’t been doing this for very long, and shit happens. Hey, you okay?” He touches Pat’s shoulder, and he sobs. “Okay, you’re not okay. Fuck, you’re breaking my heart here.”

“I’m sorry,” Pat croaks. He hides his face in the crook of his elbow, and then in Tad’s shoulder when it’s offered. “I-I-”

“Shh, me too. Jesus, that uh, I didn’t mean to sound like that. That was shitty.” He squeezes Pat so tight he feels his ribs creak. "I'm sorry. You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe."

He is. Barely, wetly, but each attempt goes just a little better. Tad keeps apologizing, shushing him, hot hands rubbing across Pat's ribs. When he's back to being a regular sad sack of shit, pretending to be a blanket draped across Tad's chest, he apologizes again.

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I'm," he sniffs, "well, I'm fucking crying again." He wipes his face against Tad because fuck it, it feels good. "I-I I'm not trying to scare you away, but I feel like I must be."

"You aren't." Tad rocks him a little, rocks them both really. "I'm just terrified that if this doesn't work out it's going to fuck you up." He huffs against Pat's neck. "I don't want to be the thing that breaks you."

"I don't know if we were ready for this," Pat whispers. "Physically, sure, hell yeah." ("No shit.") "Yeah," he laughs wetly.

"We might be going a little fast. We forgot to do the benign, boring shit first. You know, the part where we ask cliche questions about favorites and whatever."

"Or getting a coffee or a drink or something. Dinner maybe." Pat huffs out a sigh and lets his eyes close, just for a little while.

"Tell me about Tiger," Tad says softly. Pat blinks a few times, snorting as he forces himself upright. "I wanna know about the guy I'm sort of... substituting?"

"I like that better than rebound."

"Yeah," Tad winces. "I didn't mean to sound like I was accusing you of anything, but I sort of did do that."

"You didn't mean to," Pat says.

"Still," he kisses Pat then, because clearly they can't help themselves. Or he’s just that pitiful. "Now spill."

"I was crushing on him," Pat says. "They all knew I'm gay, it wasn't some big shocker or anything. And it's not like I went around making passes every chance I got."

"If you said anything else I'd call you a liar."

"Fuck you," he snaps playfully. "So uh, we got piss drunk one night. Nothing too crazy. Tiger and I managed to make it to our room -"

"You shared a room?"

"Look, the apartment was shit. The room Sam ended up using was definitely not up to code. So yeah, we shared the biggest room. But we were piss drunk and I couldn't get him to move his dumb ass off my bed, and I just sort of… fell on him. And then I maybe kissed him."

"What happened after?"

"Nothing," Pat shrugs. Tad raises one brow, skeptical. "No, really. We were always sort of, I don't know, he let me be a little clingy sometimes. But he straight up told me we're friends, and he didn't want more than that. He wasn't really looking, period, I guess. Wanted to live in the moment, not worry about pining after somebody."

"So you're not a substitute," Pat continues, "because there's nothing to substitute in the first place. I miss him. I miss all of them," he says, biting back a fresh wave, "but I wasn't with Tiger."

"You alright?"

"Sure," he clears his throat. "Yeah, it's just… sometimes it's easy to talk about them, and sometimes it's not."

"We can be done."

Pat nods. And as much as he'd love to stay right where he's at he slips off Tad's lap and settles need the center of the bed. They're onto something, and he doesn't want his libido to disrupt it. "I think it's your turn, anyway." ("My turn?") "Yeah. I know I always look like I'm one mean comment away from crying, but I want to hear your take."

"I think you can take at least two," Tad teases.

"Oh yeah, totally," Pat laughs and wipes up his face with his sleeve. "Hurry up and drag me already."

"I won't drag," he says, "just a gentle tug." He fucking… he doesn't even  _ wink _ but Pat still flushes. "It's just," he pauses, "you seem pretty happy, except when you're definitely not, but you know. Generally speaking, you seem happy."

"I've been better."

"But you've been worse," Tad insists, and, reluctantly, Pat nods. "And me too, you know? This is making me pretty happy, but since we didn't do a lot of that, you know, normal early relationship shit, we didn't figure out if there's something either of us can't stand. Like," he shrugs, "maybe you just really hate my… mohawk."

"Joke's on you," Pat says, "because I do fucking hate your mohawk." Tad bursts into laughter. "Yeah, so there. I overlook my burning rage daily. I uh, also can't imagine you with other hair though, so don't get rid of it or anything."

"I don't plan to." He sighs softly. "But it's back to the whole, we didn't do this in order sort of thing. Because all I know is your wrist is still healing, and you might not be able to play. Or even if you can maybe you won't be up for it anyway."

"I'm still working on that one."

"Right, so if you being happy is like, relying solely on this," he gestures between them, "so if it goes away you’ll have nothing. I don’t want this to ruin you. Or for you to ignore shit and pretend it's okay. I can be a fuck sometimes. My mouth starts before I've gotten a chance to really figure out what I'm trying to say, and we get shit like rebound."

“If I’m not allowed to ignore shit then you’re not allowed to agonize. I do enough of that for the both of us.”

“I’d argue that you shouldn’t agonize either,” Tad says.

“I reserve the right to agonize over,” he holds up a hand, ticking items off with his fingers, “my arm, the lawyers, and fucking nazis.”

“Deal,” Tad smiles, holding out a hand so they can shake. He frowns down at their hands, shifting so their fingers tangle together. “So what do we do?”

"I don’t know. Try, I guess."

"Yeah?"

“I want to,” Pat insists. “I really, really want to.”

"Maybe we should just… take a step back. Figure out what we want out of this. We can start asking the unimportant stuff. I want to know all the shows you’ve watched so we can trash talk them.”

“And I haven't gotten to ask you about the eighty cats your family has had over the years." Tad chuckles. Pat did that. It feels good to know he can do that again.

"And whether one of us knows how to cook anything that won't slowly destroy us. I hope it's you because it's definitely not me."

"Not even a little. If I wasn't staying with my mom I'd die."

"Oh no," Tad mouths. "We’re doomed."

“Guess so.”

“For what it’s worth, I want to try too.”

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Pat crawls closer and kisses Tad, once, a few times, he wants to savor the easy part for a bit. Tad lets him, joins him, but he keeps the pace slow and sweet and not so desperate and frantic.

"Don't think this is really stepping back," he comments idly, and kisses Pat again so clearly he only means it a little.

"Shut up and let me kiss you, man. I want to feel like I know what the hell I'm doing."

Tad puts a hand on Pat's chest to hold him back. "There is some shit we need to hash out tonight."

"In a minute," he murmurs, and Tad gives him that, more than that, but the threat of drowsiness is unstoppable, and when Pat sits back on Tad's thighs his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton.

"I'll drive you tomorrow," Tad says, "if you still want me to, I mean."

"Mm-hmm," he yawns, "fuck."

"Hitting you hard now."

"Yeah," he sighs. He hates how reliant he feels on the stupid thing to feel tired, but fuck he's thankful it isn't something more potent. "I really need to sleep."

"I'll go to the couch," Tad says.

"Wait," Pat grips his shirt, nails scraping Tad's chest through the fabric. "I know we’re going to slow down, and I still think we should, but I um," he ducks his head, and their foreheads touch, "I sleep better when I'm not alone, I think. If that's okay. We can start for real in the morning."

“Okay.”

He only meant the bed, but the offer to be closer is made, and Pat’s in no position to deny the request. True to his imagination Tad is an awesome spoon partner. His chest is warm and steady against Pat's back, with one arm sandwiched between them and the other over Pat's side and curled up over his chest. He feels contained, but not trapped. Protected, even though he knows Tad is a heavy sleeper.

Briefly, fleetingly, impossible to follow through, he thinks about removing his brace, but he's asleep before the idea can make purchase.

-

When he wakes the weight against his back is gone. Understandable, expected really; they’re stepping back starting nowish, and Pat’s just thankful the night prior came at him with some odd dreams, but none that disrupted his sleep. Some were nearly pleasant.

He rolls onto his back and finds Tad there, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head resting in one hand. His back is unreadable, but the slump feels sad, lonely maybe. Before he can wake up properly and register consequences he sits up and drapes himself against Tad’s back in one smooth movement. It’s not that intimate; he’d do this to Tiger when he was too many beers in and just needed something solid to lean against, something that would register his sudden disappearance and find it alarming.

Tad’s been up awhile, because his movements are sure and coordinated. He has Pat on his back so fast he gets lightheaded. He pins Pat’s arms up, but gently, mindful of the brace. And then he stops holding him down, giving Pat the chance to move as he so chooses.

“We’ll start in an hour,” Tad whispers against Pat’s neck, making him shiver. He watches Tad make his way south, lower and lower, teasing him through his thin cotton tee shirt. He tugs Pat’s shorts down in one smooth motion, and Pat drops his head back against the mattress, letting his eyes close and willing himself to last.

He doesn’t, but that’s okay. Pat takes in a deep, satisfied breath and lets it out slowly. He looks up at Tad, and shoves him when the corner of his lip quirks up, cheeky shit.

“I have every intention to reciprocate,” Pat says.

“Do you?"

“In a minute,” he yawns. “Maybe two.”

But he fucking falls asleep, and when he wakes up again Tad is no longer in the bedroom. He finds him out in the living room, dangling some string thing for the cat and playing a record. Just chilling. When he sees Pat at the edge of the room he smiles, and it fucking ruins him.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Looked like you needed it," Tad says. Which, it's not a lie but he feels weird about where things stand. But Tad isn't acting weird. He offers up some breakfast, which Pat refuses, preferring to let his stomach churn on nothing if it's going to act this unsettled.

"We can do something if you want. I don't have any plans."

"We can go," Pat says. Drearier than he wanted, and he backpedals a bit. "You have four hours to drive, right? Could get lunch in Portland before you drive back."

"Sure," he's still chill, still smiling, but they both feel it now. This unnamed, suffocating tension. He fucking hates this. "Let me know when you're ready. I'll be here."

-

There’s a special sort of agony having perfectly civil, pleasant conversations with Tad. They sample more of Tad’s music. Pat asks him about the cats, which were numerous, and he tells Tad about shitty canned laughter in sitcoms. It’s exactly what they need to be doing, and the whole time he feels a nervous sort of pressure building in his chest.

They eat lunch. He knows this because he has a container of leftovers with eighty percent of his sandwich and fries. If Tad asks him how it was he won’t be able to answer.

He finds himself in possession of a room key at a basic but clean hotel close to the law offices. And there’s a hand on his back, ushering him through the hallway towards his room. Pat has his backpack, and Tad’s pulling his suitcase. He gets the card to work first try, and opens up into a decent sized room with a king sized bed and a window overlooking the highway. If he focuses on these mundane things he can get Tad out of here before he goes full nuclear.

“Decent place.”

“They want me to cooperate.”

“Well, yeah,” Tad chuckles weakly. He wheels the suitcase to a little space beside the dresser and more or less takes Pat’s leftovers from him and puts them in the little fridge. Pat tosses his backpack onto the bed, and does not think about how little he plans to use it this week.

“C’mere,” Tad says, though he has to manhandle Pat into the hug. But he hugs him back just as tight and hides his face against Tad’s neck. “Give yourself some time, okay? Just be Pat for a bit.”

“I’m gonna call, like daily,” Pat says.

“Yeah, that’s good. I’d like that.” He gives him another squeeze, and holds him out at arm’s length. “We both want this,” he says firmly. Pat must look skeptical, because he kisses him. “We do. We just need to figure out if we’re ready.”

“I don’t know how you aren’t fucking terrified.”

“I am,” Tad laughs with relief. “Believe me, I am. I just,” he sighs and drops his hands, “I’m trying to stay hopeful. Calling it a when and not an if. Things like that.”

And Pat sees it, the tension, the bags under his eyes. Tad’s a calm breeze compared to Pat’s tornado of panic, but he’s not getting through this unscathed. He feels guilty, then, for not acknowledging it sooner.

“My therapist,” he says, far too loud, and he coughs into his fist before trying more human decibels, “she uh, tells me to set goals for myself. We could try that, maybe.”

Tad nods, “I want to set your goal,” (“O-oh, okay.”) “and you can set mine. If that's okay, I mean."

“You first.”

“Cool,” Tad leans back against the dresser, tapping two knuckles against the top. “Okay, how about you try to figure out a hobby.”

“What, like, does this new Pat like reading or something?”

“Whatever you want,” Tad shrugs. “It’s probably okay if you just figure out something you’re not into.”

“I’ll probably need something to entertain myself when I’m done at the fucking lawyers’ office.” Something that isn’t just binging another show until sunrise. "I don't know what else makes me happy. I didn't, um, I didn't know I could still  _ be  _ happy anymore. But I was okay with that!" He insists, anything to get Tad to stop making _ that _ face. "Sometimes I'd feel content, I guess, but I didn't laugh. I didn't feel  _ good _ . And I don't want it to stop, but I don't want to manipulate you. Sometimes it feels like I am, though. Like right this second, actually. I'm sorry."

"You apologize a lot," Tad rasps. He sighs. "it's," he clears his throat, and finally sounds more human. "If you were really manipulating me I'd have taken a week off work and bummed around in your hotel room."

"Just sounds like I'm bad at it."

"I feel like that's a good thing."

"This is the shit that scared people in Arlington," Pat says. "I mean, morbid shit got them all worried, but you make one crack about having not smiled in three weeks and everyone panics."

“You make it easy,” he teases, but also sort of doesn’t. Neither of them is laughing, for one thing. “What’s my goal?”

“Huh? Oh,” Pat sighs. Focus on Tad. Yeah, he can do that. He can do that all day, no sweat. “You should start a portfolio.”

“That’s kind of far off-”

“And it’s farther if you don’t try, right? I think you should try. I still have your poster.”

“My - oh.  _ Oh _ .” He smirks. “Wow, that’s flattering.”

“It’s good!” he maybe sort of shrieks. His face feels so warm, why the fuck does he want this exactly? “Your art is good, okay? It’d tattoo well, I think.”

“Thanks,” he says, butter smooth, and he leans in for one last kiss. (Not last. Never last. It could be twenty fucking years before he’s ready but fuck it all, Pat’s willing to wait for it.) “Good luck.”

“You too.”

He wants this. He wants this so much. He’s just not sure he gets to have this.

\---

Turns out when you’re in the terminal stages of a settlement a lawyer’s office will need you at their beck and call, but only for about an hour or so at a time. (Or, that’s his current experience at least. He’s seen the hotel  _ bathroom  _ more than the law office in the past two days.) Pat spends an endless age staring at the ceiling while his laptop autoplays, and then starts asking if he’d like it to continue autoplaying, and then his battery finally dies and he’s left in uncomfortable silence; just him and the gentle hum from the air conditioner.

Phonecalls with Tad feel forced and trying, but he endures them because it’s still the highlight of his day. They talk about some bullshit nothing, because it's scary to admit he tried reading and fucking hates it, or that he's having trouble sleeping on the big ass bed; that he'd willingly share a fucking twin if it meant he wasn't alone.

Day three is exceptional bullshit, and he knows he's being an absolute terror snapping at the lawyers.  _ Their  _ lawyers. The ones that want paid as much as anybody but are also being way more chill than he remembers. He knows it's bad, because when they're done Amber unsubtly declares she has a shift, and pointedly looks at him until he follows her out to the beat up car Tad sold her so he can sit on the floor behind the counter at the liquor store currently paying Amber's bills.

"You're sort of having a meltdown," she says gracelessly.

"How can you sort of have a meltdown?"

"You haven't smashed any glass yet. Your mascara isn't running," she says sarcastically. "Would you prefer it if I called it a full meltdown?"

“I just think it’s an exaggeration,” he sighs.

“So what is it then?”

"I'm not sleeping well," he says. "I just want this to be over."

"Will be soon," she says. She's filling a basket by the register with those little single shot bottles, the kind meant to entice college students looking to slip a little something in on the sly. "Not like people came running to defend the asshole's estate. Just gotta wait for them to finish the final investigation."

"What's there to investigate?" He scoffs. "It's not like the drugs were that well hidden.  _ We  _ found them and we weren't even trying."

"It's a lot of drugs," she says, really being unhelpful when Pat just wants to complain. "Lot of other shit, too."

“You’d think they would put a rush on it then,” he grumbles.

“Are you having some sort of fight with your flannel?” (“Um, I’m not wearing flannel?”) “I thought you and that Tad guy were basically married or something.”

“Wh- You knew what I was talking about?” He smacks his head back against the cheap wooden counter, wishing it would splinter, or maybe render him unconscious. “I thought you didn’t understand. I felt like a fucking idiot.”

“I was going to do that to you no matter what. You just make it easy.” He flips her off, but she’s not really interested in his ire. “You want to just say it outright this time?”

“I’m gay,” he says, and he waits, because he sort of thought this was going to be a ‘yeah, me too’ moment, but Amber just eyes him critically for a few seconds before nodding to herself and returning to the bottles. “Things are sort of fucky between us, I guess. We aren’t fighting, though. It’s just not working.”

“Sucks to be you,” she drones. Still, it feels like she means it.

“What do you think I should do?”

“Why do you think I’ll have any advice for you?”

“I’m asking you to fucking  _ humor  _ me,” Pat groans. “Can you try, at least?”

"Fine, fuck," she grumbles, throwing a bottle down into the basket and turning to pop one hip against the counter. "So, what's the problem? Trouble in bed?"

"The opposite." ("Gross, thanks.") "We're just," he shrugs, "we're fucking it up. I'm fucking it up. Tad's probably convinced I'm going to disintegrate if we don't stay together, which, I dunno, I guess I do have this real subtle air of desperation around me."

"... You think it's subtle?"

"Fuck you," he says halfheartedly. "So, yeah, I don't know. I'm a fucking disaster, aren't I?"

"You're something," she sighs. "So, what, you want to date him, right?" Pat nods. "I don't know why you make shit hard for yourself. If you want to date the fucker then date him."

"That's your fucking answer? Do the thing I'm doing?"

"I don't really know Tad. Fuck, Pat, I hardly know you. I don't know why you think I can, or that I even have any interest in helping you with this. I'm having a hard enough time getting you to fucking cooperate for the lawyers. I’m not piling more shit onto my plate."

"I'm doing what they ask."

"Not without bitching the whole time."

"I fucking hate this," he sighs. “If you have something to say, say it.”

“I want to ask a question first,” she counters. He shrugs a shoulder, indifferent. “What are you going to do with your settlement?”

He studies Amber, trying to determine if she’s trying to fleece him somehow before he even has the money in hand. Jury’s out. “Medical bills,” he says cautiously. “Why are you asking -?”

“I’m getting a house,” Amber interrupts. “Got my eye on one. Little rough, one room, no running water,” she pauses, and levels him with a look, “I’m kidding.”

“I assumed that!” he snaps. “Jesus, give me a little credit.”

“You want to see it?”

-

Pat expected the ugly siding, the cracks in the driveway and sidewalk. He didn’t expect the oddly charming little stepping stones. There’s no way Amber would have her own set of ceramic little animals in the garden if she goes through with it, but the whole feel is disarming him, making him uncomfortable.

“It’s cute.”

“Good bones,” she says. “Yard is fenced in the back. I’m getting dogs,” she adds. “Great danes, probably.”

“Big breed.”

“That’s the idea.” She takes in a deep breath, and sighs, long and a little sad. “Spent a long time thinking I needed a group around me to feel safe, but it just made a different kind of fear.”

“I get that,” he says, means it too, “but sometimes I get so fucking scared when I’m alone.”

“I was pretty convinced you’re scared all the time.”

“Only sometimes,” he says. “Most of the time. Is there a point to this?”

“You never did answer me,” she says, raising a brow. “You don’t know what you’re going to do.”

Pat shoves his hands into his jacket. Sure, he hasn’t worked out the specifics. And the little demonstration he gave the lawyers went south so damn fast he about threw the shitty acoustic guitar through a window. He fucking would have too if it didn’t take his hand five minutes to stop cramping up.

“I’m weighing options.”

“Darcy’s dead, Pat,” she says firmly. “You’re acting like he isn’t, and that he or one of his mindless pissants is lurking around every corner just waiting for you to get settled so they can fucking take it away from you.”

Pat sucks in a breath and covers his mouth with his fist. “Why’d you have to say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

He paces away a bit, loathing and yet thankful that he hears Amber’s clunky boots clomping behind him. Pat stops at the corner and kicks a piece of loose concrete into the street. “It’s not like I haven’t heard that,” he explains, “I mean, my therapist said it nicer. Called it what it is.”

"Did you think you were hiding it or something?"

"I thought I was over it." He scrubs at his eyes angrily. "Think this has something to do with my other problem?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Maybe," he scoffs. "Fuck, man. Thank you."

"For what."

"For not bailing."

"You're a fucking sap," she drones, "and anyway, I don't think I'm qualified to fix your shit."

"Yeah, no," he huffs out a sigh but he's smiling. Just a little. "But I pay my therapist a hundred fucking dollars an hour for a reason."

\---

Pat knocks on Tad’s apartment door twice, three times, and he steps back a couple paces and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. He’s home, probably, or he’s at least not at work. Pat thought about just calling the parlor but chickened out when he realized how much of a creeper he’d look like. So he did a totally normal thing and just walked by the large windows and peered inside. Tad’s mohawk stands out even in a place where he fits in, and it was nowhere to be found, so Pat’s pretty confident in his assessment.

And he's right, more or less. Tad is fully dressed right up to his meticulously gelled hair, which means he  _ was  _ going out. Is going out? Has already been out? Pat is still agonizing over the useless particulars when Tad clears his throat.

"Did I miss a call? Or, several, I guess?"

"No," Pat shakes his head, clearing some space for the important shit, "no, I made the lawyers foot the bill. I got a motel," he adds, bracing unsuccessfully for the hurt confusion on Tad's face. It's slight, but he's looking for it, so it doesn't go unnoticed.

"Oh-kay," Tad breathes. "Well, alright. That's cool."

"I want to do things right," Pat insists.

"I'm not sure what that looks like."

"Me either," he admits. "And I didn't figure out a hobby," he says, "except now I remember reading fucking sucks." Tad laughs at that, startled, and it buoys Pat's spirits. "But I am keeping my therapist," he says, "for a while," he adds hastily, "because I uh, I did learn I might not have my shit handled as well as I thought."

"Hence the motel?"

"Sort of," Pat says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't like... I was afraid if I told her I wanted to try dating that she'd tell me I wasn't ready, which is bullshit, but, you know." He shrugs. "But she agreed when I said we thought we were going too fast. Very much so. And uh, she pointed out it’s hard to go slow if I’m around you every fucking minute of the day.”

“So you got a motel.”

“It made sense when she said it,” he says. “Like, I knew that all along but sometimes I don’t trust myself.”

“I should have let you get one when you got here,” Tad says, "but I was afraid you'd go incommunicado again. That uh, really freaked me out. More than I really let on."

"I'm sorry. I won't, or, I'll try not to. I'll do better."

"Better is good.”

“Do you want to get dinner?” Pat blurts out, barking out a laugh at Tad’s bemused smirk. “We haven’t really been on a date yet. And um, well there’s a good chance I’ll put out,” he jokes, but Tad gets all smarmy over it. “I want to try, like,  _ really  _ try. And we’ll have to figure out the long distance shit but I’ll be stuck here for another week signing papers and what the fuck ever.”

“Lawyer shit still a thing?”

“Sort of,” Pat says. “We’re like, most of the way through being settled. I can’t play,” he adds somberly. “It could get better, but yeah, can’t get my hand to form chords for shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Tad sighs, and he hugs Pat so tight the air sort of rushes out of him. “Fuck, Pat.”

He lets himself get properly settled into making this a long hug, even though he’s sort of, kind of, okay with the choice being taken away from him. Tad doesn’t need to know that just yet. “You didn’t answer my question yet, man. Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Yeah, course,” he says. “So you’re okay?”

“Tad,” he grunts when he squeezes too tight, and they step apart. “I’m okay. I’m not like, great, but I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, it sucks,” he huffs against Tad’s shoulder, “but I sort of expected it? I wasn’t blindsighted or anything.”

“Might as well happen,” Tad comments, and yeah, that’s about how Pat feels.

“So, I’m guessing your week went better than mine.”

“I don’t want to brag,” as he fucking gloats, “but I definitely did spend a whole fifteen minutes going through my old posters and shit.”

Pat snorts. “I guess it counts.”

“I’m easing into it,” Tad says. “Baby steps, you know? And it’s not like I did nothing. Hung out with the cat, got a couple new albums in finally, and I think I wasted three, no, four batches of rice.”

“Um, what?”

“So, I’m very much down for actual dinner elsewhere,” Tad says as he moves towards the kitchen, “but I might’ve been inspired to try and not be a degenerate in the kitchen anymore.” He opens up the fridge and produces a container full of, well, rice. “I know fried rice isn’t like, gourmet or anything, but there’s vegetables in it. And I guess you can put other shit in it too, like tofu-”

“I’ve never liked tofu,” Pat counters, “but fuck, man,” and he can’t say it, can’t say anything really, because this is some sappy shit and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He always knew Tad was trying but this is something else.

“So,” he drawls, ambling across the room. He leans in close, fiddling with one of the buttons on Pat’s jacket, “dinner?”

“Dinner,” he breathes, “yeah.”

-

And they do the damn thing. Pat wants to invite Tad to the motel on day one, but he doesn’t, just steals a few kisses in one of the side entrances to hold himself off for a few minutes until he can hide in the shower and handle things himself like a normal person.

And they do it again, and again he holds off, savoring the promise of tomorrow instead of dreading it. But they’re both hurling towards something by the time they leave the restaurant on day three and wander into the little cheap dollar theatre a few blocks away.

It’s the darkness, and the fact that the movie is barely filling seats after a full month of showings, that gives Pat enough confidence to hold Tad’s hand. But it’s not his fucking fault that Tad starts getting handsy; he was overwhelmed by the fucking hand hold.

Again, and it’s not any sort of new fact, Tad’s a  _ fucking  _ tease. Fingers trail along the outer seam of Pat’s jeans, and then across his knee, and just barely trail along the inside before starting over. He’s nowhere near Pat’s groin, but it doesn’t matter, because this goes on for a full twenty minutes before they both give up on the movie entirely and slip away into the fucking night like a couple of creeps. The only reason they don’t hole up in a fucking alley is because there really isn’t one between the theatre and the motel.

He’s never put a lot of thought into how motel doors are weighted, but fuck if he isn’t grateful. Because it means he can focus on better things, like kissing, and sighing when Tad kisses him, especially when it gets him to do it more.

Tad’s  _ everywhere _ all at once, and they’re still building a foundation, but they’re past the shaky, garbage part where things last five minutes (or less if he’s honest). They last long enough to leave a trail of clothes from the little hall by the door to the queen sized bed. Long enough to consider, back off, and reconsider doing more. It’s too soon, they agree, too fast, but is it? Maybe, possibly, but that doesn’t stop them.

Pat can’t speak for Tad, but he’s not unfamiliar with the details. It’s been a fucking age, but he knows what to expect. And Tad’s as gentle as ever, maybe moreso, but it still sends a searing heat from his chest to his cheeks. Tad whispers in his ear, coaxing him to relax, to breathe, and he clings to Tad’s shoulders until his head stops spinning.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” he mouths, still having a rough time with the whole breathing thing. “Maybe wait a bit,” he laughs, feeling a bit hysterical.

Turns out when he’s a fucking livewire there’s no way to backpedal without just straight up stopping, and he says as much, wetly, because there’s something depressingly true about him being near tears. And maybe this is the thing that’ll break him, but fuck, if only he could be that lucky.

He’d hardly call two tears crying, but he’s not about to say no to Tad’s coddling. Tad draws his fingers across Pat’s back in the hazy aftermath, murmuring nonsense about showers and things Pat isn’t interested in thinking about right now. He’s feeling good, better than good, he might even feel  _ great _ . He’s tired and sore and punch drunk and -

And he wakes up after a short nap as Tad coaxes him out of the bed and into the shower. Together, they’re in the shower together, and he wishes he was more aware but then again, if he was then maybe Tad wouldn’t be washing his hair for him.

“Bet you go through half a bottle to get all that gel out,” Pat mumbles, eyes closed while he savors the feel of nails on his scalp. “Hotel bottles don’t have shit on you.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Tad agrees, chuckling under his breath. “Not gonna lie, sometimes I think about getting rid of it. Been eyeing something a little lower maintenance.”

“M’not stopping you,” Pat murmurs. He yawns, and sputters when he gets a mouthful of sudsy water. “I dunno, I guess I sort of like it. Grew on me.”

“Such a charmer,” he snorts.

“You’re the one dating me. I know what I’m bringing to the fucking table.”

He doesn’t, not anymore, or maybe he does if he thinks about it longer than a few seconds. A bum arm and hair trigger tear ducts, what a fucking catch. He doesn’t get a chance to self-deprecate further, too busy being kissed, and then coughing out the water he snorted up from letting Tad kiss him underneath the shower stream. Smart, real smart; they’re both fucking disasters. Fucking made for each other.

\---

“I don’t know if I’ll call every day,” he says five minutes from the airport turnoff. “I mean, that sounds really fucking clingy, and my days aren’t that interesting.”

“You can if you want,” Tad says with a shrug. “Maybe when you’re going through apartment shit. I could be a distraction.”

“Maybe,” he says, dreading the stack of boxes. “Yeah, probably. I don’t know, some of it is just, like, the shit from the kitchen. Dishes and whatever. You looking for a new set? I think ours was from a dumpster. Or maybe that was the couch.”

“I really don’t want another couch.”

“Good, because I think that went back in the dumpster.”

“Work is way more lax these days,” Tad says. “So if you want to offer up any other dumpster shit just shoot me a text. Rosie’s chill about phones as long as I’m not actively tattooing somebody.”

“Thought you weren’t doing that yet.”

“Not yet,” he assents. Yet. Pat likes that. “Still a ways off. We do have some training samples coming in later this week.”

“Cool.”

Pat feels a tingling sort of anticipation in his stomach as Tad makes the exit, and it intensifies the longer they’re stuck in a parade of cars all attempting to pull up to the same drop off zone. His stupid anxiety can fuck right off; he’s two hours early with no checked luggage for a reason.

Okay, he doesn’t want to go, and it kept him from sleeping most of the night, but he feels so much better leaving now compared to last week. He’ll call Tad most days and see his therapist and maybe he’ll have a hobby or two by the time he can get back to Astoria.

“Fuck, don’t tell my mom she was right,” he blurts out during a perfectly content moment about five cars away from his gate. Tad purses his lips, confused, but he waits for Pat to explain. “Well, she uh, she called this the hard part. Like, living.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s like, it’s hard sometimes, fuck.” He huffs. “Surviving’s pretty easy, right? I mean, now that I’m not being fucking hunted it’s pretty easy. Living is the hard part.”

He doesn’t feel the dread settle in until the last word leaves his lips, but fuck does it hit him full force right after. Tad doesn’t have to say anything, he doesn’t  _ have  _ to, but he’s fucking going to and Pat is not ready.

“That was something.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles, hiding his red face in his hands.

“It was poetic?” He guesses. “I mean, it sounds like it might’ve been in a poem or two.”

“Fuck you,” Pat whispers. He doesn’t shrug off the hand rubbing his back, but he considers it.

“I know what you’re getting at,” Tad says, placating him. “You’ve been watching too many sitcoms.”

“I don’t know how to talk like a person anymore,” he whines.

“You’re fine,” Tad laughs, clapping him on the back to get him to emerge. “C’mon, we’re almost to your gate. Gotta buck up, or whatever your shows would tell you.”

“I hate you so much,” he groans, but he does as he’s told. He sees a sign for some art museum in downtown Portland, and he can’t not scratch the itch. “Have you ever thought about moving to Portland?”

Tad’s not expecting the derailment, but he takes it in stride. “Not really, why?”

“Well, I mean, obviously the two hour drive sucks,” except it doesn’t, because fuck it goes so damn fast every time. “I sort of figured you grew up in Astoria and never left.”

“You’re sort of right,” he explains. “I mean, you’re one hundred percent right, actually, except for the part where I did move there for a bit after high school. Felt like hot shit, too, until I realized I didn’t like it.”

“Yeah?”

“I like walking to work,” he says dreamily, “and pretty much everywhere else, honestly. And it’s cheaper, so that’s always appealing. And now there’s the tattoo parlor.”

“You complained about the scene being dead.”

“I  _ said  _ it was dead,” he corrects, “but it’s not all bad. Small shows feel more intimate, sort of special. And bigger shows aren’t actually that far away. And the music scene isn’t everything, but I like being the person that brings it to some of the people back home. Lets me do my part to keep it going.”

“That’s pretty cool,” Pat agrees. “And it’s a little corny.”

Tad just looks at him and, well, yeah, Pat doesn’t need him to say it aloud. He kisses Pat exactly once and unhooks his seatbelt. “Have a good flight.”

\---

Pat pulls his laptop a bit closer on the couch and starts up a video chat with Tad. While he waits for an answer he opens up the last box from the apartment and peers inside. He didn’t sort them in any particular order, and this could be a very emotional or very anticlimactic ending.

“What’s in the box?” Pat startles and slams the flaps closed, scowling at Tad when he fails to hide a laugh. “Hey.”

“Fuck you,” he spits. “You about scared the shit out of me.”

“ _ You _ called  _ me _ .”

Pat grumbles some obscenities and opens up the flaps. “It’s, uh, more clothes? At least the top is mostly clothing.” He sifts through a couple shirts from his and Tiger’s room. Some are just Pat’s, which is sort of disappointing, but a few are from Tiger’s collection of sleeveless, half torn dish rags he called shirts. He feels powerful in the moment as he separates them out from his usable clothes and adds them to a trash bag. Then he just feels sad, and an insatiable tug to go find Tiger’s jean jacket and put it on.

“You okay?”

“Sometimes I wish Tiger didn’t wear his shit to death,” he sighs, tugging a Misfits shirt out of the stack and unfolding it, inspecting the sleeves, which are absent, and the main body of the shirt, which is somehow intact. “Or maybe he just fucking hated sleeves.”

“I thought you found a couple the other day?”

“Reece’s,” Pat corrects. He doesn’t want to be a weirdo on camera, so he waits until he’s over by the suitcase of clothes to keep before he smells the shirt. It’s stale, with just a hint of their communal, dollar store detergent. It smells like the apartment; it smells nothing like Tad. Another weird disappointment.

“Doing okay?” Tad asks once Pat drops back onto the couch.

“Just thinking,” his answer feels insufficient, flat, but Tad accepts it anyway. He lets that little tidbit of knowledge wash over him like a balm as he moves back to the box. It’s nothing special; a few records he honestly forgot they owned and clearly didn’t miss, an old pair of sneakers that were either his or Reece’s but now belong in the trash bag, and a folder full of gig posters, most of which are so generic and one dimensional they probably weren’t worth keeping. None of them hold a candle to Tad’s, which he went out of his way to put in a cheap plastic frame to keep it in good condition. He breaks down the box and tosses it towards the pile of other emptied boxes and sits back, feeling a bit unfocused now that he’s finished.

“Does this mean you’re all done?”

“Guess so,” he marvels. “Weird.”

“Gotta feel good too, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, and looks at Tad, “yeah, it does feel good. And strange. And I think a little sad? I don’t really know what I’m going to agonize over next.”

“Probably that tattoo,” Tad points out. Pat lifts his arm and turns it this way and that, surveying the available canvas. It’s a little rough, and the scars still have a tinge of pink. “You still need a design.”

“I think I have some ideas,” he says. More than ideas, he has a fucking scheme. “Say, you think I could get in this week?”

“Rosie’d probably bump pretty much anyone if you ask.”

“And if I asked to stay with you, would that be okay?”

Tad smiles. “You know you don’t have to ask that.”

“And if I said I was thinking of staying longer, how about then?”

He laughs, “okay, maybe I’d tell you to get a motel eventually, but I’d like that.”

There’s more he wants to say, like; my settlement is finally fucking over and it turns out I won’t have to give all of it to the hospital (half, really, and he’s fucking  _ thrilled _ ), or maybe I called your landlord and she sort of sucks but she did accept my application for the apartment above yours with pretty much no questions asked, but he’ll do it in person. He wants to experience it, live it, and the computer screen isn’t enough.

“I’ll probably have to check a suitcase,” Pat warns.

“So I’ll take my time. Might get a coffee or something.”

The whole two weeks he was in Astoria last time he never felt homesick, but he’s been fucking Tad-sick for a month and a half now and it feels so good to remedy that, even if he’s still lacking a plane ticket and the rest of his packing and any sort of plan to tell his mom he’s bouncing all the way across the continent. But he’s been an insufferable ass lately, so maybe his absence will be welcome.

"I think I hate Arlington," he admits. It's probably too on point, too much of a fucking clue, but Tad doesn't make any guesses, preferring to tease Pat to death instead. He is a shithead the rest of the call, saying this and that to make Pat flush. Pat lies and says he hates it, and Tad lies back and says he’ll stop, and by the time they’re done he’s already booked his flight.

-

"I'm by the carousel, yeah, my fucking bag is going to be the last one off the plane, I'm sure."

"Well, good thing I'm stuck in the coffee line," Tad says. "You'd think they'd try to churn people out faster, but I don't know. Maybe it's a blessing since your bag is delayed."

"They're working together," Pat says. "Fuckers." He glances around, suddenly very aware he's swearing enough to earn some parent's ire. Good thing it's a fucking Wednesday. "Wait, shit, I see it. I'll see you by the exit."

He feels like a tool dragging a coffin sized suitcase behind him, but no one stares. Hardly anyone even looks, aside from the people he nearly bowls over. And Tad's in his line of sight before he has to care about crowds overwhelming his delicate sensibilities.

Tad's harder to spot with the faux these days, his sides are a whole half inch long and the hawk proper three inches shorter, but there's an effortlessness to it even though Pat knows he still gels it daily. He's much less of a tryhard with it this way, and it's okay for Pat to think it because Tad said it aloud first.

"I think you understated that bag," he teases. He opens up the trunk and stands back, lips pursing. "Do you want a hand?"

"I made a big production about not letting my  _ mom _ help me," he says, "but uh, yeah," he laughs, "it's heavy as shit."

"Didn't wreck anything I hope, fuck," he grunts when the weight of the bag catches up with him.

"I sure as fuck hope not," Pat also grunts, trying to muscle his half with only his good arm. They manage, and celebrate their little victory with a too-quick kiss over the open trunk before climbing into Tad's car.

"Here," Tad says as he hands Pat one of the coffee cups from the center console. ("Oh thank fuck.") "You're the one that chose an overnight flight."

"It's the layover in Texas that fucked me," he says between drinks. "Seriously, I'd fucking kill for a direct flight but not when I'm the one paying." He sets the cup down and fiddles with the little flappy lid. "You're the one that had to be up at fuck o'clock to get here when my plane landed. Are you good to drive?"

"This is why I got coffee," Tad says, toasting the air before taking a drink. "And we could always get breakfast, or stop on the side of the road."

He winks there, and Pat would absolutely fuck on the side of the highway, but his stomach rumbles, complaining bastard. He gave it pretzels like, an hour ago. "I guess I'd go for some pancakes."

They stop at the fabled diner and Pat gets pancakes and bacon  _ and  _ an omelette, plus a muffin to tide him over, and Tad is more sensible and orders a skillet. But he steals a bit of the bottom of Pat's muffin, declaring it to not be a crime because the top is way better.

"Fuck you."

"I'm just saying, I didn't know you were so attached to the  _ bottom _ ."

There's a shoe toeing at his ankle, and Pat's brain catches up a little, and he flushes. "Don't do this to me, man. We have a two hour drive after this."

"What, I'm just asking how you like it."

"Fuck you," he whispers, pained, and Tad smirks. "God, nevermind, just take me back to the airport. I'll sleep on a bench."

"When's your return trip?" Tad asks innocently, and Pat looks away. "Well?"

"I don't have one," he grumbles. "it's, now it's not just you, okay? But I thought about what you said and, and where I want things to go and what to do and," he takes in a breath and holds it before letting it out in a rush. "I'm moving to Astoria."

"I know."

"Y-you what? What the hell?"

Tad laughs, "okay, so I didn't  _ know _ , but I had an idea. And you realize my landlord actually talks to me, right? She didn't say your last name, but she told me a very nice young man named  _ Patrick _ was moving in upstairs."

"Did you correct her?"

"That's your battle, not mine. Consider yourself lucky. She calls me Chad."

"Great," he sighs, and puts his head down on the table. "I wanted to surprise you."

"You did," Tad says softly. "And it's a good surprise, okay? I really liked it, even when I didn't know it was a sure thing."

“I was going to make a whole production out of it,” Pat whines. He feels like whining, feels like throwing a genuine tantrum over something so stupid, and that’s enough to get him to sit up like a fucking adult and go back to eating his muffin. “Would it have made any real difference if you hadn’t known about it?”

“Different how?”

“I dunno,” Pat shrugs a shoulder, and then he doesn’t have a chance to clarify because their food arrives and he is starving. It doesn’t matter anyway. Tad knows and he’s happy, and he keeps tapping his shoe against Pat’s just so he can wink at him when he looks up from his plate.

“So are you going back and forth more or is this it?”

“Well, I sure as fuck am not bothering to ship the dumpster couch out here.” Tad snickers, and he gives Pat a playful shove towards the car. “I have my clothes and some other shit. There’s some stuff I need to get now that I’m out here. Boring shit like dishes and whatever.”

“And a bed?”

“Well, fuck, I was sort of hoping to use yours,” Pat jokes, except he really doesn’t because fuck, he wants to sleep in the same bed as Tad so fucking bad. “If you don’t mind.”

“It does feel awful empty these days.”

“Right,” Pat sobers a bit. “I was convinced you were going to keep the cat forever.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “but you should’ve seen the kid’s reaction when they came to meet her. Honestly makes it worth it, and there’ll be more foster cats.”

“Sure,” Pat agrees, hoping to just drop the subject entirely. “You’ve done this more than me.”

“Many times,” Tad nods. “And I’ll do it again when they need me.”

_ You’re a better person than me _ , he thinks, but that’s one of those things he keeps to himself.

In the car, partway down the road and halfway though the first of many albums, Pat turns down the sound so he can speak. “Do you ever work through conversations in your head before you have them?”

“Um, no?” Tad glances at him, assessing Pat, and he must be satisfied because he focuses back on the road. “Should I be? I do feel like I shove my whole foot in my mouth sometimes.”

“I don’t really know,” Pat admits. “I mean, I’m sure it’s normal to like, plan what you’re going to say, but I mean like, I’ll say this, and then that person will say that, so I’ll counter with this shit, and uh, I get sort of lost in it sometimes. Daze out a bit. Believe it or not I have anxiety,” he jokes. Tad does him the courtesy of laughing exactly once, and grabbing his knee to reassure him. “Oh yeah, I’m really good at agonizing over shit.”

“So, you sort of play through it, is that it?”

“Yeah,” Pat says, “except I’m fucking terrible at actually predicting how people will react. I’ll get myself all worked up and angry over something, and then,” he sighs, “okay, so that time I called you from the restaurant bathroom? I thought my friends’ families would razz me about going to a nice restaurant in sweats. But they didn’t, because of course they wouldn’t do that, what the fuck was I thinking?”

“Was that the day you got out of the hospital?”

“Exactly, yeah, so I got all worked up, figuring out how to defend myself, and then they just hugged me. And they were a lot, but they were being  _ nice _ . No one gave a shit but me.”

“I’m not sure where this is going,” Tad admits. “I’ll listen, I just don’t know what you need me to do here.”

“I think I’m just bitching,” Pat says. “I don’t really do it that often anymore, but sometimes it helps me figure out if I'm the one being a shithead. Like that time I thought people would yell at me for being a schlub after almost dying."

"Whatever works. Maybe you're just less pessimistic now," Tad offers.

"Maybe." He mulls that over while he takes another drink. "I'm not angry anymore."

That gets him another knee squeeze, and he slips his fingers between Tad’s, leaving them resting on his thigh. He gives them a few quick pulses, showing off his newfound grip strength, which he would currently classify somewhere between an infant that still has reflexes and a very stubborn five year old. It’s progress, moreover it’s better than he ever hoped.

-

Getting his keys is purely ceremonial. He steps inside long enough to satisfy his new landlord that he doesn’t regret doing the viewing over video chat, drops off his hulking mountain of a suitcase in the tiny bedroom in the back, and hightails it downstairs to cajole Tad into giving him attention.

Or maybe to just take a nap together on Tad’s bed, which has the benefit of letting them tangle up together without much effort. He gets to do this shit all the time now. Part of him still can’t believe it, honestly, and he keeps batting away a nagging thought insisting he check for flights. Maybe for the holidays, because there’s no way he’s getting out of the first Thanksgiving post Darcy, but maybe he can convince her New Years is for lovers or some other corny shit he can’t seem to keep his mouth from saying.

He wakes up first, and spends a good five minutes watching Tad sleep. He would have gone longer, could have spent his whole day like that, but Tad blinks awake before he can really hunker down for a lengthy voyeurism session.

“Hey,” he whispers, returning Tad’s sleepy smile. “Hi, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You sure about that?” he teases. “What’s up?”

“I want you to give me the tattoo,” he says, bending in close when Tad’s brow furrows. “I’ve been thinking about it, okay? A lot. And I know you’re learning, and there’s five or more artists at the parlor that could technically do a better job, but it feels right, having you do it for me. Like I’m bookending this shit for good.”

“I was sort of expecting something cheesier,” Tad admits.

“What, like calling you my epilogue or some shit?” Tad kicks him in the shin, but they laugh and Tad kisses him and sure, it’s cheesy as fuck, but it’s also very fucking accurate.

-

“I hope you know I will take no responsibility if this looks like shit,” Tad warns him, again, for like the tenth time today.

“I’m barely asking for anything,” Pat reassures him. “It’s, what, your own fucking handwriting?”

Tad sits back for a moment, perplexed. “Do you think I write like a serial killer? One letter is like, fifteen strokes.”

“You know what I mean,” Pat whines. “C’mon, Tad, you said we had to get done before the shop opened. It’s fuck o’clock in the morning, and I want you to stab me repeatedly with an ink filled needle. Is that really so hard?”

Tad side-eyes him, but he’s smirking down at his gloved hands, cradling the needle gun like it’ll start firing randomly any second. “Okay, between you and me, it would be cool if you maybe picked one of the names that could possibly look less good than the others. Is it okay if it’s Reece’s?”

“Tad,” he groans, letting his head fall back against the headrest. “Please? I don’t want it to be perfect, okay? I want it to mean something.”

“Here goes,” Tad says, getting a very worrying look on his face, and then he’s working away on the uppermost part of the tattoo.

Pat sort of goes somewhere when he gets new ink. He tries to stay in the now, to make little offhand comments to encourage Tad’s work, but it’s more intense than his other arm, a bit more painful and distracting, so he just lets himself drift sideways a bit to help keep his endurance from waning. Things get rough as hell once they’re at his wrist, he actually needs to make Tad stop for a bit so he can maybe sort of cry a little, just for a few seconds. Tad rubs a hand up and down his thigh, whispering little compliments that make Pat blush. He doesn’t feel particularly strong or brave, but he composes himself well enough to let Tad finish up the last few strokes.

“I’m sure you know the drill,” Tad says as he gently wipes up his work, “but Rosie would fire me if I don’t give you the full spiel.”

“It’s cool,” he breathes. He’s not really listening, and he’d feel bad about it but he’s too busy admiring Tad’s handiwork. There’s a couple teeny-tiny shitty spots, some edges that could be a little smoother, but it’s personal and meaningful and damn, he is pretty impressed with Tad’s little details. There’s the microphone by Tiger, with a cord he didn’t need to bother trying to give depth to but damn it he did a fucking good job. And Sam’s lucky guitar pick, the one with a little nick on the top. She picked up in some parking lot right before they had a very tip heavy show in their early days. And Reece’s sticks, beat to shit because he’s a stubborn ass and insisted on keeping a pair until they’re literally splintering apart in his hands.

“Pat?” He snaps up, having missed the entire list of instructions, and also probably his name a few times. “I’m flattered, really, but I do need to bandage it up.”

“Oh, right,” he holds his arm out for Tad, watching his nimble fingers cover each new tattoo with gauze. “How soon can I get more?”

Tad laughs, “Fuck, Pat, give it at least a  _ second _ to soak in.”

“I have so many ideas,” he says excitedly. “Their desert island bands. The  _ real  _ ones, I want those next.”

“Uh huh, that’s great,” he placates him, “and you’ll get them, okay? Me or Dietrich or whoever will cover your whole damn arm eventually.  _ Eventually _ . You got plenty of time.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, reaching out, demanding Tad offer up his hand and letting them swing together in the space between them when he complies, “I guess I do.”


End file.
